


Know Your Fear(s)

by Millennialpink22



Category: Barry (TV 2018), IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barry AU, F/M, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Richie is Barry, Stan Uris still dies, Suicidal Thoughts, and it shows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23091457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Millennialpink22/pseuds/Millennialpink22
Summary: After Richie's parents died, he left Derry to live with his Godfather, Monroe Fuches. Hurt, confused, and unable to get a handle on life, Richie joined the marines. After a few tours and one breakdown, he lost everything. He lost his will to live, his purpose, and his Trashmouth. With the help of his father's best friend, he finds a new purpose. It is not until he takes a phone call from one Mike Hanlon that he is able to remember everything he once was. He is now confronted with the task of not only meeting up with friends as someone they will most likely not recognize but also to confront a murderous clown that definitely has more material to use against him given the career field he has unfortunately fallen into.(Starts During Chapter 7: Loud, Fast, and Keep Going)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 60
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I love Barry. I love It. I've seen a few crossover fics but I decided I wanted to make Richie a blend of himself and Barry's traits, with the Barry traits (currently) overpowering the Richie ones. He does not go by Barry at all in this fic and stage name? We aren't fucking with that right now because that'll simply confuse not only you, but me.
> 
> Idk. I wanted to do this for a while and I hope it's interesting. If not, we'll just abandon it and pretend it never happened-- like we did with Paris Hilton's music career.

Richie collapses in an uncomfortable metal chair after having put his fist through the glass of a picture frame and throwing a chair across the room. His shoulders tremble violently and his crooked teeth raw the bottom of his lip as sobs threaten to shake him once more. His throat is sore from his animalistic screaming and as the adrenaline slowly evaporates from his veins, he begins to feel the telltale sting of glass within his knuckles. How did it come to _this?_ He closes his eyes tightly as the distant sound of Chris’s wife answering a phone echoes in his ear. He releases a weak breath, staring ahead at the wall before him. His heart is no longer pounding. It is heavy and sinking in his chest as the weight of his actions settle upon his shoulders. 

Chris was his _last_ friend that really understood the throes of war. He did not know why Richie had gotten discharged-- no. But he knew it wasn’t as honorable as Fuches had made it out to be. He could sense this upon Richie’s return. Richie spoke less. He didn’t crack interesting jokes or impersonate people. Richie’s personality had been snatched away just as Richie had snatched Chris’s life away. He smashes the heels of his hands into his forehead as this thought among various other intrudes into his brain with relentless abuse.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out of Los Angeles. He cannot continue this anymore. He needs to confront Fuches and inform him that he can no longer live this life of crime. It isn’t even about crime anymore. It’s about the fact that he was actually capable of killing one of his last living friends. Sure, he has the acting class and has something budding with Sally. But, it’s not of the same value as the genuine friendship he had with Chris. Maybe they hadn’t spoken in a few years-- but Chris was the last person he can really remember caring about him in a way that was not reliant on his ability to execute a scene or simply execute a person that did not agree with Fuches or whatever mob he had gotten tied up with. 

He knows there is unfinished business to address with the Chechens, but he cannot bring himself to care anymore. They’re probably going to come after him once he returns to Ohio. _Let them,_ Richie thinks bitterly as images of Chris’s bloody face and sobbing family flash through his mind. He doesn’t care if they take him out once he gets out of here. He knows they still have Fuches tied up in Pazar’s garage. He truly does not give a single fuck anymore. All he cares about is flying back to the midwest where he can hopefully find a job that does not involve murdering anyone-- let alone his friends-- and eventually be taken down by Chechens. The idea should terrify him. He knows it should. But in reality, he welcomes it. Fuck Fuches. Fuck Hank. Fuck Chris for not getting out of the car.

 _It’s not his fault you’re a monster like me,_ a voice laughs in his head. The voice is oddly familiar and Richie feels a surge of nausea for a moment before easing the feeling with a few even breaths. Whatever. Nothing really matters anymore. He knows Fuches is slimy enough to figure his way out of the situation. He knows the Chechens, despite having minimal combat skills, can probably handle the Bolivians better than he and Chris did. 

Richie stands up, wincing slightly as blood runs down his wrist from where the glass has sliced open his knuckles. He makes his way to a bathroom just off the backstage area where he hears the jovial shouts of his fellow acting buddies celebrating a successful performance. According to Gene, he had done phenomenally well. Hilarious. He’s only capable of performing when he is in the throes of a PTSD-induced panic attack after having murdered one of his friends. What a fucking process. 

He looks at himself in the mirror as he carelessly picks the glass shards from his skin. He cannot help but hope to slice some artery and die right here in this bathroom where he poorly hid the money Taylor had shoved in his backpack. He winces at his own appearance. His face is ghostly pale and there are deep circles around his eyes, heavily lined with tear tracks that he has not bothered to wipe away. He looks bone tired and has the face of someone that has been through hell. He finds a lone green rag on the sink and elects to use that to wrap his hand with since he is too close to a full-out breakdown to ask someone for a first aid kit. A niggling voice in the back of his brain tells him that it’s ridiculously unsanitary to use a rag for an open wound like that but he simply informs the voice that he is hoping he gets an infection and drops dead before anything else can go wrong. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, drawing him out of the trance of self hatred. He sighs and pulls out the cracked thing from his pocket. Ice returns to his veins when he sees the number is coming from Derry, Maine. He wants to hit ignore and throw the device down the toilet and change his name and number to something that no one can contact him at again. He does not do this. He answers and puts the phone to his ear.

“H-Hello?” He internally winces at how wrecked his voice sounds. 

“Richie Tozier?” A strong voice responds.

“Uh yeah. This is him.” He closes his eyes, and leans against the door, sliding down.

“It’s Mike. Mike Hanlon.” Richie swallows thickly, knowing he’s going to be doubled over the toilet at any second despite not having consumed much today. “From Derry.”

“Yeah. I-I don’t know any Mikes?” He does. He knows a Mike Hanlon. His brain is screaming. Images and voices intermingle with the ones he has of Chris and his family. Words of people (Losers?) playfully yell at him and others, less kind, shout slurs at him that he realizes actually pertain to him and are not just unweighted insults. Sally is going to find _that_ interesting. 

“You have to come back, man.” Mike tells him. 

Richie swallows, tears filling his eyes again. “I-I can’t. I have to go home.” Ohio is home. Cleveland, Ohio is home. 

“Yeah, you do.” Mike confirms. “You need to come back to Derry.” 

No! Derry is not home. He’s not from there. Yes he is. No he’s not. He can’t be. Being from there means he has to confront…

“It’s back, Richie.”

Richie drops his phone on the tile and throws himself over the toilet, neglecting to mute Mike from his violent retching. The anxiety of going home, accepting Chris’s death and what comes after, and the memories of childhood trauma overwhelm his entire body and make him care minimally that this is Mike’s first impression of him as an adult.

“Richie?!” He hears Mike yelling through the crackly speakers. His phone definitely faced some damage when Taylor crashed the car. “Rich!”

He groans pathetically, wiping his mouth with the back of his uninjured hand. He picks the phone back up and places it to his ears. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes. “I-I’ll be there… when?”

“Tomorrow at the latest. We’re meeting at Jade of the Orient. Can you do that, man?”

“Y-yeah. I’ll fly in tonight.” He responds without thinking. 

“Alright, Rich. I’ll see you soon.” 

Richie shoves his phone back in his pocket, chest heaving up and down as he is bombarded with an abundance of memories he has successfully-- or perhaps, unintentionally-- repressed for twenty-seven years. He can clearly visualize himself as a mop-headed teenager crushing on-- _no._ He sees himself running his mouth and teasing his first (and only) real lo-- _NO_ . He remembers himself being the funny guy (or at least he was in his mind) and spending his days with the best friends one could have ever asked for. What is he now? He’s a fucked up hitman that just killed one of the only friends he had after getting out of Derry and losing all memory of previous buddies. He isn’t funny anymore. He definitely doesn’t blabber anyone’s ear off anymore. Getting him to talk was like pulling teeth. He knew he was socially inept-- that came with the territory of being a hitman that was designed not to feel anything. 

He peels himself from the bathroom floor, quickly flushing away the disgusting evidence of his panic attack and proceeds to cup metallic-tasting water into his mouth to remove the revolting taste from his tongue. He needs to get out of here now and make the journey back to L.A. Nothing else matters to him right now. He exits the bathroom and finds himself peering into the backstage area where celebrations continue. He considers approaching them and neglecting the promise that makes his palm burn slightly. He had always thought perhaps that scar had happened whilst in the military at some point and he merely forgot. It makes sense now. Fucking Bill and his symbolic promises. 

Instead of bidding farewells or finding Sally to explain everything to her, he quickly exits the studio and orders an Uber back to the hotel he and Fuches are set at so he can pack a bag and get the hell out of here before he hurts anyone else or allows the hatred within his own brain to force him to do something that will prevent him from reintroducing himself to his past friends. 

xXx

Richie was able to book himself a flight and gets to Bangor after a few unexpected delays, stops, and ignoring multiple phone calls from anyone back in L.A. He has yet to respond to anything, but is able to see that Sally is confused at his sudden disappearance and also impressed by his performance. There are a few texts featuring inappropriate Bitmoji usage from Hank and a simple text from Fuches that simply informs him that he’s glad he’s alive and that he’ll be in contact soon.

So, Fuches must have gotten away from the Chechens and avoided a bloody death. He did not even consider the chance that he would have been believed dead. It makes sense seeing as he was supposed to kill the Bolivians and failed horribly given Taylor’s method of carelessly barging in with reckless driving and blaring music. Richie briefly thinks he should just have killed Taylor when he was given the chance and maybe, just maybe, he would not have had to kill Chris.

 _You didn’t have to. You chose to. You’re a monster,_ a voice hisses at him. Chills run down his spine and Richie digs his nails into his palms. He is waiting for a rental car at the airport and can only imagine how awful he looks if the glances of random bystanders is anything to go off of. He could not bring himself to sleep during his flight because each time he closed his eyes, he was bombarded with images of Chris’s wife on the kitchen floor mourning him while their son stood behind her. 

Richie signs off for the car and is surprised to find that his rental is significantly nicer than anything Fuches has ever set up for him. He is set to finish his journey to Derry in a maroon Mustang that he knows would scream midlife crisis if it actually belonged to him. He cannot bring himself to care much. A midlife crisis in the form of a car is better than the one he had where he lost the will to live and agreed to kill people for his dad’s best friend after being let out of a mental institution in Germany. God. He really hopes there aren’t any icebreakers at this bastardized version of a reunion. 

Hey, he tells himself. _That_ was a mildly funny thought. Sure, it was fueled by trauma, guilt, and suicidal ideation prompted by war and killing his only true friend outside of these people he left after his parents died, but it’s something.

xXx

Richie gets himself checked into the Townhouse that Mike texted him about earlier that afternoon and attempts to make himself look less disastrous. He knows he should probably consider a shower seeing as he’s still dirty from the attempted raid and has crusted blood under his fingernails from where he tried to mend his injured hand. Plus, he knows he looks incredibly disheveled and worn out. Unfortunately, his phone is buzzing with texts from Mike informing him that he needs to hurry and get there. 

Richie elects to comb his hair with trembling fingers and spray himself with a liberal amount of deodorant to conceal the smell of nervous-sweat and the peculiar scents that follow anyone when they have spent any amount of time in an airport. He also elects to change his contacts given that his current pair were starting to irritate him. He almost considers putting on his glasses for familiarity but Fuches’s voice distantly reminds him that they’re a handicap and could prevent him from adequately defending himself if necessary. This does little to help his overall appearance, but he knows he smells significantly better-- which should be enough. He wishes he could do more since his subconscious is reminding him that he is about to see E-- _NO. STOP SAYING IT._

Richie hops into the car and with the help of his GPS, he makes his way to the Jade of the Orient. His heart begins hammering as his brain is overloaded with more memories that have been blocked for a majority of his life. He is not the same guy he was when he knew these guys. He doesn’t even know if they will be either. Maybe they won’t even notice his personality change as they most likely have succumbed to their own traumas and have fucked up personalities as he does. 

He is about to get out of the car when he notices a familiar looking red head frozen in front of the entrance. She is objectively beautiful. Her features are soft and incredibly delicate. Her hair is a fiery red he knows can only belong to his past smoking buddy: Beverly Marsh. He wants to smile at past memories, but instead he feels a pang in his chest at the life he once had and now has lost. Who the hell is he now? She is clearly uncertain and hesitant to enter the restaurant. He spots bruises upon her wrists and briefly remembers Sally mentioning an abusive ex from her own life and feels his stomach sink and a desire to protect blossom in his chest. He contemplates approaching her but before he can get the chance, a rather attractive man stands behind her saying words he cannot hear. She seems confused at first but they each fall into laughter and are quick to hug each other. They recognize each other. A spark of friendship and childhood longing is still there. He knows his old self might have ruined the moment with an ill-timed joke. He does not do this. Instead he stalls, averting his eyes away from their personal reunion. 

Is this how it’s going to be amongst everyone? Is everyone going to be chummy and elated to see one another? Are they going to fall into their old habits and inside jokes? Is it going to feel like 27 years has not gone by for the rest of them? He does not think-- no he _knows_ he will not be able to emulate them if that is the case. He is too far gone to be his old self. 

He pulls himself out of the car, feeling rather schlubby in his loose-fitted henley and jeans. He has yet to change since the Macbeth scene. He has yet to change since killing Chris. He looks down at his hands as he approaches the restaurant and he swears he can see blood flash on them for a brief second. He swallows thickly, enters the restaurant, and informs the hostess that he is looking for a table under “Hanlon.” She quietly guides him toward the back of the place behind some fish tanks. His stomach begins to churn violently at the sound of laughter and conversation. He could have easily found his way back here with the volume of the slightly more mature versions of voices he has in the depths of his mind. They are still the same people. He can tell that much simply by the way they are interacting. He is not.

He quietly approaches, simply observing from afar as everyone begins complimenting the hunk of a guy that he is able to recognize as Ben. Wow. He _really_ glo’d up. He feels he could have done so too if he was not you know, traumatized from the military and too depressed to do anything before he found “purpose” in killing people for money. His eyes scan the others who have yet to notice his presence. He recognizes Big Bill-- not so big anymore given that he is easily the shortest male there. He can see Mike urging them on into their old idiosyncrasies, a contagious smile upon his dark features. Beverly is giggling loudly at something said by a man in a red sweatshirt. Richie’s heart immediately drops. His face goes hot and the part of his brain that worked the hardest to repress this particular person and the feelings associated with _them_ begins to buzz loudly with anxiety. 

Richie is about to turn on his heel and run away from any chance of encountering Eddie Kaspbrak but Mike seems to notice him sulking in the corner.

“Richie!” He exclaims, waving him over.

Richie forces a weak smile and offers a small wave. “Hi.” He greets softly.

“Trashmouth!” Bev immediately squeals, throwing her arms around his broad shoulders.

“Hi.” He says again and her face drops slightly as she pulls away, brows furrowing in concern at the exhaustion that is clearly drawn upon his face. “It’s good to see you.” His voice is soft and he feels himself wince once the worried expression grows on her face. He isn’t what she was expecting. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets after stepping back, offering his hand to the other men around the table. Most of them give him looks of confusion at his greeting and he cannot help but feel humiliated.

“Look at this guy,” Eddie suddenly barks out as they all move to sit down. There is one chair in between Eddie and Richie that remains empty. He knows it should be filled but for some reason he cannot think of _who_ is meant to be there. “You look like an _actual_ adult. Who would’ve thought?”

Everyone starts cackling at that and Richie feels a small joke bubbling in his throat regarding Eddie’s mom or something like that but he cannot find it in himself to say it. This does not go unnoticed and the others once again seem confused at the lack of boisterous behavior coming from him. He really does not fit in with this exciting bunch anymore and he thinks maybe he should just find a way to sneak out the bathroom window.

This is not feasible as Mike immediately orders a round of shots for everyone. From there, everyone falls into easy conversation and playful teasing. They begin talking about their current lives and pick fun at each other’s appearances, spouses, and career choices. A lot of them turn to Richie when a joke falls flat but he simply pokes at his lo mein with disinterest. 

“So Richie,” Mike says after everyone is done teasing Eddie about his incredibly dull job as a risk analyst. Richie is actually envious of his job. He probably doesn’t have to kill people-- especially not his friends. “You were actually the hardest to get a hold of. I couldn’t find much on you. Your Facebook page is really new.” 

That was kind of the point of his entire existence. He was never meant to be found by anyone-- especially childhood friends. “Uh yeah. I just got on.”

“Your girlfriend helped me get a hold of you actually. Sally, right?”

“Trashmouth has a _girlfriend?”_ Bev giggles, cheeks reddened from alcohol. “I don’t believe it.”

“I mean she’s not really my girlfriend. We only uh,” He shouldn’t say they slept together. That’s toxic masculinity, right? “We’re just talking I guess. She did set it up for me. I’ve only been using it to get in touch with some people from uh…” Richie itches the back of his head. He feels his heart begin to race. He is about to mention Chris. Chris is dead. Does his wife even know he’s dead?

“Hello?” She’s answering the phone. “What?” She’s sobbing on the floor.

“Mom?” 

His wife is sobbing into her son’s shoulder and her son is expressionless.

They’re at a funeral, solemn expressions on their face as they stare at a flag-covered coffin.

“Rich?” Eddie says, placing a gentle hand on Richie’s shoulder. “You good?” He looks fearful and Richie looks around him and notices the others have mixed expressions of worry and confusion.

“Yeah sorry. I just zoned out.” He forces a laugh. “That didn’t change.”

“No. Guess not.” Eddie chuckles, but it’s flat. 

Richie knows he’s ruining this. He should have never come back. “She just helped me get in touch with some friends.”

“You were in the military, right?” Mike says and Richie feels his shoulders drop again. Why do reunions have to include the exchange of such trivial information. They already exchanged pleasantries. There is no need for icebreakers. The ice is melted. “I was surprised to see that.”

“Wait?” Bill says, laughing slightly. “ _You_ in the marines? Trashmouth Tozier, the most hard headed guy ever in the marines? I can’t see it at all.”

Richie laughs a little. “Yeah. Uh, my uncle Fuches thought it would be good for me.” Richie fidgets uncomfortably, eyes fixating on the condensation of his water glass. “It was okay.”

“What do you do now?” Eddie asks him. 

Kill people. “Uh, sales. Auto parts” Richie responds. 

“You're acting too, now right?” Mike presses, “I saw a few pictures of you.” He laughs for a second, “I wasn’t trying to stalk, trust me. It was just really difficult to find you, man, We were actually going to try and meet earlier but you were so hard to find.”

“Yeah, I just kinda didn’t get involved with social media stuff until I met Sally, I guess.”

“Wait, are we not going to address the fact that Richie is doing _theater?”_ Eddie suddenly laughs. “I can’t see it. You’re Richie. You would have never done something like that. Is it at least like comedic acting or whatever?”

“Uh, no. It’s L.A. acting so it’s kinda just based off films and stuff like that. I dunno. I haven’t done much with it. I’m still kinda new. I do it in between my main job.” Richie decides it’s time to change the subject with his best attempt at reigniting his more humorous side. “So let's talk about the elephant _not_ in the room. Ben, what the fuck man?”

Everyone falls for it and is suddenly on top of Ben for his newfound hotness. Richie offers the bare minimum to the conversation and focuses his attention on his breathing as images of what he did just over twenty-four hours ago weighs on his mind. He knows Chris’s wife would have had to have reported him missing by now. Maybe they found his body, slumped and bloodied in the car. It’s probably been ruled a suicide. He didn’t leave a trace. He’s too good at this. Maybe killing is all he is good for. Maybe--

“Stanley Uris,” Bill sounds out slowly. 

“Stanley Urine.” Richie immediately says. He suddenly remembers a curly headed boy that he once regarded as his best friend. 

“Shit.” Mike mumbles. 

“You think he’s gonna show?” Eddie asks.

No one offers a response. Instead they fall into continued conversation. Bill and Bev start chatting about his career success as a writer and hers as a fashion designer. A waitress drops off fortune cookies for them and Richie finds himself playing with the plastic as Eddie begins ranting about how toxic they are for you.

“I think you may have just read something on the internet and believed it.” Richie informs him, setting his own down.

“I don’t think so. I mean there’s no nutritional value in those things.” Eddie huffs out. 

“I mean they aren’t the worst thing you can put into your body.”

“You’re one to talk, Rich.” Eddie scoffs, “No offense, you look like absolute shit.”

Yeah, that’s what killing your friend does to you. “Air travel. It doesn’t agree much with me.”

“Nah, everything about you is just really different. You really zoned out when Mike was talking to you earlier. It was kinda scary man.” Eddie gives him a sad smile. “It probably wasn’t fair to bring up your military background. I’m sure you saw some stuff when you served and I can’t relate really and we haven’t been around each other in years, but hey if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

“Uh, thanks Eds.” His heart leaps as the nickname slips off his tongue with ease. “I really appreciate it.” He peels open the cookie and elbows Eddie playfully, his heart pounding with lo-- liking for the man. “You don’t have to _eat_ it, but at least read your fortune.”

“Alright and don’t call me that, asshole.”

Apparently, opening their fortune cookies was a big mistake. They are met with the realization that their missing friend apparently could not “cut it” and are then bombarded with terrifying creatures that break their way out of their cookies and begin attacking them. Richie was forced to encounter an eye that was the same exact color as Chris’s. 

A mortified hostess approaches the table as Mike beats the table with a chair. Richie cannot help but be reminded of his breakdown at the studio yesterday. The hostess asks if everything is okay and Richie simply asks for the check. 

Richie elects to cover the meal and feels himself internally cringe when he makes the same mistake he did in front of Taylor as he pulls out his impressive wad of hundreds. It’s all money tainted with his kills but it’s more than enough to not only cover everyone’s meals but to pay off some of the damages induced by their terror. 

“Jesus Rich, what auto place are you at?” Mike says. “I think I want in.”

“Good management.” He mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets as they head toward the door.

“Thought you weren’t ever coming back here, Rich.” A sly voice says from behind Richie and he suddenly feels as if someone has submerged his body into the arctic sea. Richie turns around and is met with the smirking face of one Monroe Fuches. 

“How--” Richie gasps.

Fuches quickly grabs Richie around the shoulders and Richie swallows, his neck heating up as he feels the Losers’ gaze upon him, sans Bev who is currently scrolling through Mike’s phone to find Stan’s number. “You know I have my ways with those Chechens and _I_ still keep tabs on all of your payment history and can track your fucking phone.”

“Man, you have to get out of here. I’m dealing with something right now.” Richie feels himself starting to panic and he really cannot have this happening when the concern for Stan is the primary focus among them right now. 

“ _They_ can deal with it. You’re coming home.” Fuches snaps.

“Fuches, please. I have to stay right now. This is really important to me.”

“Oh, a little reunion for you and the friends who haven’t seen you since your fucking parents died matter more than _me?”_

“Fuches, you don’t understand, please.”

“Really man, just back off.” Eddie suddenly says.

“Oh, do they really want you around Rich?” Fuches laughs, a furious glint in his eyes that has never terrified Richie more than it does now. “Do they know what _you really do?”_

“Man, shut up.” Richie begs, chest rising.

“Seriously dude,” Eddie barks, putting a hand on Richie’s shoulder, pulling him away from Fuches.

“I heard about your friend, Chris.” Fuches taunts. Richie cringes so hard that Eddie jerks his hands off of him. His stomach sinks slightly at the lost contact. “Shame. Su--”

“Fuches, shut up.”

“ You selfish sonofabitch, you fucking ditched me to deal with those fucking psychopaths because you didn’t kill--”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT. I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU. DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?” Richie suddenly snaps, punching Fuches right in the face, expecting it to transform into the stupid clown.

Instead, he hears Fuches groan pathetically and feels Ben pulling him outside whispering calming words into his ear while Eddie holds the door open for them. Bev is already ahead of them, a finger over an ear as she speaks to someone, presumably Stan’s wife. 

“You alright, man?” Eddie asks as they await any news regarding Stan.

Fucking great. He has not only proven himself socially incompetent to the Losers but has now revealed that is completely and utterly unstable as well! “I-I thought it was…”

“Bathtub.” They suddenly hear and Bev is choking slightly. Stan has killed himself. He slit his wrists in a bathtub and is now dead. He didn’t ditch them. He was simply too dead to come see them. 

Everyone immediately erupts into panic and Richie sits himself on a curb whilst Eddie starts arguing with Mike and Ben attempts to comfort a tearful Bev. Richie, as per usual, isolates himself and offers nothing to the other Losers. He needs to get out of here. He cut himself off from these guys for the rest of his life. He cannot allow them to know anything about what he does. He realizes that despite not remembering them for twenty-seven years that he still cares too much about them to allow himself to potentially ruin whatever new lives they’ve made for themselves. 

“I’m fucking out of here.” He grits out, heading to the car.

“We made a promise!” Mike insists.

“Well, let’s unmake the fucking promise!” Richie shouts back. “I just remembered I grew up here like five hours ago! I-I can’t do this Mike. I’m not doing something like this again. I’m tired of it.” He dealt with this clown once. He was attacked for his sexuality and forced to watch his friends be brutalized. He spent years in war. He now spends his life killing people for money. He cannot continue this streak of trauma-inducing activities. He’s apparently done it since he was a child and he has had enough.

“I’m with Richie.” Eddie says, following Richie to his car which is apparently parked next to Richie’s. 

Richie is about to get in when he sees Fuches holding ice to his face exit the restaurant, the expression on his face deadly. “Fuck off” Richie seethes out. “I’m going back home, don’t fucking talk to me ever again you piece of shit.”

“Richie you fuc--”

Richie slams his door shut and immediately zips out of the parking lot and toward the inn before Fuches can continue his verbal assault upon him. He has no interest in staying in Derry any longer. Stan has killed himself. He feels tears burn his eyes. He fucking slit his wrists and is _dead._ He never got to see him again. God. Richie has lost two friends in two days. One of which was his own doing. He cannot stay here any longer. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do but he knows it cannot be here. He doesn’t care if he made a stupid promise when he was a teenager. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s the same person by any stretch. A stranger might as well stand in his place. They would be more helpful against a murderous, shapeshifting clown than he would be: an unstable hitman that has feelings for-- _FUCK OFF._

Richie pulls into the inn before any of the other Losers and finds himself screaming and punching the wheel. He feels the wound in his hand reopen slightly as he punches the steering wheel. Nothing is right. He killed his friend. His other friend killed himself-- when in reality, Richie knows he should be the one who-- _stop it._ His mind is berating him with a variety of intrusive thoughts and his body begins to quake uncontrollably. Nothing is okay. He can’t be here. He can’t be in Derry for a second longer. He doesn’t know if he can go back to L.A., either though. How can he return to where he--

“Man, come on, let’s go.” Eddie says, knocking on his window. Apparently, Eddie also has a lead foot. “We gotta go pa-- you okay, dude?” Richie knows he hasn’t seen these guys in a while, but this incessant frat-talk seems so unlike Eddie and it’s somewhat endearing. It makes his stomach flutter slightly. Goddammit. 

Richie sees himself in the mirror for a second and notices the bloodshot eyes and tears streaming down his face. “Yeah. Just… Stan.” He mumbles, pushing past Eddie and toward the entrance. “Lets get the fuck out of here.” 

Richie doesn’t know what he does from here, but he knows he cannot subject the Losers to his presence any longer. Maybe he needs to just do what Fuches says to and continue this life and attempt to remove any emotional development prompted by Gene. Maybe he needs to go back to Ohio and simply wait for the Chechens or Bolivians to finish him off. Maybe he needs to take a note out of Stan’s book.

Richie doesn’t know. Richie just knows that everything is too loud and fast for him and that he doesn’t think he can keep going.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I busted this out instead of finishing my homework. Whoops. Am I gonna regret it? You bet your sweet and sour ass that I am. :) I started jamming to Only Human by Cold Showers and was like ya know what? This makes me think of murder. So... lets write about Eddie Kaspbrak thinking a murderer is cute as FUCK. :) 
> 
> I really hope this is relatively decent. This is certainly harder to write since it is a crossover without being a full crossover? I dunno. I'm really going off script for this and redoing a lot of IT CH. 2 here because I also want to go back into Barry related content too?
> 
> I'm scared to write this low-key? Idk. We'll see where it goes. I hope ya enjoy it.

“I’m allergic to soy, anything that has egg in it, uh gluten, and if I eat a cashew--” Eddie Kaspbrak says to the wide-eyed hostess, counting off his various ailments on his fingers. He glances up seeing two faces that he immediately recognizes as Bill Denbrough and Mike Hanlon, tense shoulders dropping at the sight of the two men that he hasn’t seen since high school. “I could realistically die…  _ holy shit _ .”

Memories have been trickling into the forefront of his mind ever since he crashed his car upon receiving Mike’s phone call. Statistically speaking, and Eddie is a verified expert in that area, that is a rather uncommon occurrence. In most cases, one is prone to memory loss after experiencing a car accident but ever since Eddie had his, there has been a busted floodgate of memories surging through his brain regarding the childhood that seemingly evaporated from his brain when he left Derry to attend NYU. Not everything is clear but the longer he is in Derry, the more clarity to the memories.

What unnerves him most is the sudden niggling voice that is like his, only shriller and unbroken, in the back of his mind that tells him that everything he just told that hostess is a lie and that all the medication that caused his luggage to be overweight at the airport is unnecessary. It asks him how he forgot his mother and everything she planted in his head. It begs to know why he is married to someone exactly like her when he doesn’t even like-- _ not important.  _ What  _ is  _ important is reuniting with…  _ THE LOSERS  _ and addressing the reason why Mike demanded that he get his ass back to this shithole of a town.

He walks over to Bill and Mike, offering them both hugs. He cannot help but preen at the fact that it is no longer the shortest in the group as he notices that he can see over Bill’s head. Big Bill is certainly not as big as he once was and Eddie wants to tease him for it but something in his gut tells him that that’s not  _ his _ job. 

“It’s good to see you both.” Eddie flashes a smile at the two men, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“It’s real good to see you, too.” Bill smiles gently at him and suddenly they hear two other sets of feet approach their table.

Eddie is met with the sight of a taller and well-muscled man that he finds his eyes wandering curiously. He feels a warmth in his stomach that he hasn’t felt in years. The other person, a female, while absolutely gorgeous, doesn’t elicit the same feelings for him. He recognizes the latter as Beverly Marsh. That red hair could not belong to anyone else and for a moment he struggles to pinpoint who the handsome man next to her is but after seeing the kind smile and soft eyes, he recognizes it to be Ben Hanscom. He has certainly evolved from the chubby boy he had been in his youth.

“Look at you, Ben!” Eddie cannot help but exclaim, grinning at both of them. They all fall into conversation regarding Ben’s obvious physical change and his face is clearly reddened in embarrassment but he definitely appears to appreciate the fact that they notice the change in his appearance. Eddie remembers, as his past continues to trickle forward, that his weight had always bothered him in his past. He had been adorable as a child in Eddie’s honest opinion, but now there was no denying that Ben Hanscom was indeed hot. However, despite this obvious fact, Eddie knew Ben wasn’t  _ his _ type. 

They’re all stepping closer to their table, about to make a move to sit even though it appears as if two of their seven are missing. Perhaps they are late. Eddie cannot clearly pinpoint  _ who  _ is missing. But there is an obvious emptiness that cannot be ignored by him. He is about to accept that the other two individuals are simply not going to show when Mike beams at someone that is apparently lurking behind them. 

“Richie!”

Richie. Richie Tozier. Richard Tozier. Eddie feels his cheeks heat up immediately as he whips around, expecting to see a lanky grown-up with absolutely no body fat or muscle mass, dorky glasses, a shoddy haircut, and some heinous shirt that looks like something a middle-aged dad with an unhappy marriage (and boy does Eddie know about those) would wear on a cruise ship with the family he regrets having. Instead, he is met with a man with rather broad shoulders and despite the loose fit of the henley he is wearing, Eddie can sense that he has some muscle packed onto his long limbs. His jaw is sharp and slightly stubbled and his hair looks like it had been neat at one point but is now in a state of disarray that speaks of nothing but stress. He is clearly handsome but Eddie cannot help but notice the sallowness of his face and bloodshot in his blue eyes. He looks exhausted.

“Hi.” His voice is soft and Eddie cannot help but cock his head at this. He is quickly reminded of who Richie Tozier is or was in his past life. He was a loudmouth that constantly teased all of them and exuded an endless supply of energy. This man before him is shy and has a soft, almost awkward voice as if he is not comfortable using it.

“Trashmouth!” Bev squeals, throwing her arms around his shoulders and Eddie  _ hates  _ the fire of jealousy that bubbles up inside of him.

_ Trashmouth.  _ That word alone conjures up memories of Richie pinching his cheeks, making cracks about his mom, and teasing him in a… in a hammock. He flushes slightly at that thought. 

“Hi.” Richie says again and it is so painfully unlike the Richie that is coming to Eddie’s mind. He knows he didn’t hit his head in that car wreck but it seems plausible because this Richie is not aligning with the one that is present in his memory. “It’s good to see you.” Bev narrows her eyes at Richie, clearly thinking the same thing about Richie as Eddie currently is.

Richie offers a firm handshake to everyone around him as opposed to throwing himself at everyone with bear hugs like Eddie can remember him doing in their teens. He then shoves his hands in his pockets and Eddie can see the discomfort radiating off of Richie in waves. Perhaps he had a bad flight or is simply in a state of shock about having to return to Derry. Eddie is in no position to judge someone for doing something uncharacteristic upon discovering that they had to drop everything and come to this hellscape. He crashed his car for Christ’s sake. Eddie’s never had a car accident in all his years of driving. He’s never even had a ticket. So, judging Richie and feeling off put by this quiet, apprehensive man before him is not exactly fair. 

Eddie elects to tease him, hoping that will ignite the Richie his heart is hammering for. He wants to scold his inner workings but he knows there’s no fighting the feelings that were unintentionally forgotten. He wishes he didn’t feel them. But he more than anything wishes he felt guilt for these feelings given that he has a wife back home. He does not.

“Look at this guy!” Eddie jibes playfully as they all take their seats. There is a seat between him and Richie and Richie looks slightly taken aback at Eddie referring to him. Eddie disregards the wideness of Richie’s eyes, which he suddenly realizes are not distorted with the same glasses that used to take up half of his face. This makes him look slightly softer. “You look like an  _ actual  _ adult. Who would’ve thought?”

Everyone starts laughing and making their own comments about how mature Richie seems. Eddie waits for Richie to flash him his crooked smile and throw him off course with some clever joke or a jab about his mom and how he has the hots for her or something like that. Richie simply laughs weakly, shoulders tensing and nearly touching his ears as he begins to hunch on himself. Eddie’s and the other Losers’ laughter dies off uncomfortably. 

There is a slight tension at the table now as they notice not the empty seat, but the fact that they are almost all the same except Richie. Eddie can admit that he is still neurotic and fast-talking. Bev is still clever and intriguing. Ben is still passive and kind. Mike is gentle and approachable. Bill is still headstrong and despite not being the one to have called this reunion, maintains an aura of leadership. Richie is nothing like the effervescent, wild spirit that Eddie had been expecting.

The tension is eased as Mike orders a round of drinks. The Losers are all quick to down their own shots and do not hesitate to order additional drinks in order to loosen themselves for whatever pact that Mike had mentioned over the phone call that induced an anxiety like no other in Eddie. They each fall into their old habitual teasing and keep trying to pull Richie into the mix but he simply picks at the meal before him and makes minimal eye contact with the other Losers. Eddie even makes it a point to talk about his dreadfully dull job, literally planting the seed for Richie to tease him incessantly for growing to be the most boring and uninteresting Loser. Richie does not take the bait. 

Mike attempts to pull him in by addressing the fact that he was actually the hardest to find out of them which comes as a surprise to Eddie. Bill and Bev are legitimate celebrities that he realizes he has been following for years. He has always admired the dresses from Rogan-Marsh that are frequently featured in the talk shows that he and Myra watch each night and has found himself skimming the books Bill has written and seeing the movies based on said books. He has thoroughly enjoyed them but he cannot say he particularly enjoys his endings.

Richie seems incredibly uncomfortable and admits that he is new to the social media scene. 

“Your girlfriend helped me get a hold of you actually. Sally, right?”

Eddie nearly chokes on a mouthful of rice at that. Girlfriend? His heart sinks and he knows it shouldn’t. The ring on his finger, suddenly tight --and not because he’s probably retaining liquid in his naturally slender fingers. 

Bev laughs at this. “Trashmouth has a  _ girlfriend?  _ I don’t believe it.” 

Eddie can. Richie, despite having the personality of a wooden plank, is attractive and kind. He would be more attractive, Eddie thinks, if he had maintained some of the goofiness Eddie had pretended to hate in their youth. 

“I mean she’s not really my girlfriend. We only uh,” Richie starts fidgeting. “We’re just talking I guess. She did set it up for me. I’ve only been using it to get in touch with some people from uh…” Richie scratches his head and suddenly his hand drops to the table and his eyes are wide and unblinking before him. His jaw is set tight and his shoulders begin to tremble violently.

Eddie looks at the other Losers and they all stare at Richie with deep concern and they each try pulling the man out of the trance by speaking his name. Richie is near catatonic and his eyes seem to widen in fear and he is beginning to mumble incoherently to himself and this terrifies Eddie. 

He leans across the empty seat and gently places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Rich?” Richie inhales sharply, swallowing thickly before turning to look at Eddie with shimmering eyes. “You good?” 

An obviously fake smile flickers upon Richie’s tired face. “Yeah sorry. I just zoned out.” Lie. “That didn’t change.”

Eddie wants to press the subject but notices the tremble in Richie’s hands. He laughs flatly at the other man. “No. Guess not.”

Richie averts his eyes from Eddie, hunching on himself again. “She just helped me get in touch with some friends.”

“You were in the military, right?” Mike asks and Richie’s shoulders immediately drop. Suddenly, Eddie’s stomach turns and he imagines Richie in combat and hurt. He pictures him riddled with PTSD and having violent panic attacks. He imagines him dissociating at a dinner table before his childhood friends. “I was surprised to see that.”

Eddie wants to ask Richie if he’s okay because maybe being around so many people and the constant clatter of plates in this setting is potentially triggering to Richie. He cannot possibly imagine what Richie has been through and he can easily read that something is bothering him and that Richie is not okay in the slightest. Something has him disturbed that is not solely related to being back in Derry; Eddie believes it’s fair game to assume that this is the result of his military background. It makes sense to him but he also believes it has to be  _ more  _ than only that.

Eddie is about to speak when Bill chimes in with a snarky comment that proves that Bill has developed zero social cues and has failed to read the severity of the emotions clearly tearing through the tall man before them. 

“Wait?  _ You  _ in the marines? Trashmouth Tozier, the most hard headed guy ever in the marines? I can’t see it at all.”

Eddie nearly wants to reach over and punch Bill in the mouth. He doesn’t obviously but he feels himself fuming slightly at the blatant insensitivity toward Richie.

Richie forces out a laugh. “Yeah. Uh, my uncle Fuches thought it would be good for me.” He begins fidgeting in his seat in a way that does not mimic the same restlessness from their childhood. He avoids looking at any of them. “It was okay.” 

_ No it wasn’t, _ Eddie thinks.  _ That’s obvious by the way you’re acting.  _ Eddie decides not to say what is on his mind and instead asks, “What do you do now?” He hopes the change of subject will help derail Richie from whatever had him so distraught just moments ago.

“Uh, sales. Auto parts” Richie responds. 

Huh. So Richie has a job as dull as his. That’s unexpected. What’s even more unexpected but perhaps an indication that some of his liveliness remains under this shell of a man is the fact that he is in an acting class as Mike brings up.

“I can’t see it. You’re Richie. You would have never done something like that. Is it at least like comedic acting or whatever?”

“Uh, no. It’s L.A. acting so it’s kinda just based off films and stuff like that. I dunno. I haven’t done much with it. I’m still kinda new. I do it in between my main job.” He suddenly shifts his gaze to Ben and decides to revitalize the discussion regarding Ben’s sudden hotness. “So let's talk about the elephant  _ not  _ in the room. Ben, what the fuck man?”

Everyone falls back into teasing Ben for how attractive he is but Eddie does not fall for Richie’s attempt to change the subject. Instead he watches the other man pick up spoonfuls of food and dump them back on his plate, clearly unnerved by the inner workings of his own mind. 

This concern for Richie is suddenly put on a back burner as they are each remembering who the missing seat between Richie and Eddie belongs to: Stanley Uris. 

“You think he’s gonna show?” Eddie questions. He cannot help but feel disappointed that they are not all there. Especially now that the name sparks images of a boy neurotic like him-- just in a different area of life. He remembers snarky remarks and delicate curls. 

No one knows how to answer and the subject is dropped. Maybe he’s just late. They all fall into independent catch-up conversation that could not be executed when they were all incessantly teasing one another or troubled by the lack of animation from the previous clown of the group. The waitress drops off a bowl of fortune cookies and Eddie picks one up and scoffs. 

“These things are literally toxic.” He grumbles and begins ranting to Richie about how unhealthy they are. He knows he’s being dramatic but he is hoping to elicit a response reminiscent of the Richie he cannot help but  _ crave _ . 

“I think you may have just read something on the internet and believed it.” Richie informs him, setting his own down. Eddie is mildly disappointed that Richie isn’t teasing him for being so dramatic.

“I don’t think so. I mean there’s no nutritional value in those things.” He growls. 

“I mean they aren’t the worst thing you can put into your body.” Richie attempts meekly.

“You’re one to talk, Rich.” Eddie remarks. He cannot contain his concern anymore as he takes in just how heavy the bags under Richie’s eyes are. His hands are trembling and Eddie notices a haphazard bandage job around his knuckles. “No offense, you look like absolute shit.”

“Air travel. It doesn’t agree much with me.” A blatant lie. Air travel does not agree with most people. But the way Richie looks does not warrant his horrific appearance by any stretch.

He decides it's time to voice his personal concerns now that everyone is engaged in independent discussion. “Nah, everything about you is just really different. You really zoned out when Mike was talking to you earlier. It was kinda scary man.” He knows this must be a lot for Richie. “It probably wasn’t fair to bring up your military background. I’m sure you saw some stuff when you served and I can’t relate really and we haven’t been around each other in years, but hey if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

He wants to be there for Richie even after whatever the fuck this reunion is. He doesn’t know what is going on behind the scenes of Richie’s life but something tells him that if it was anything remotely decent Richie would not be this trembling mess that can barely hold a conversation with any of them. If Richie was anything approximating “okay,” he would not have had a total 180 in his personality. 

He would still be funny, loud, and obnoxious. He would be everything Eddie… everything Edide  _ loved.  _ And wasn’t that hilarious? Here Eddie was. He was married to a wife of ten years and just one reunion in the town that he had somehow repressed for two decades is enough to remind him that he did not like women and that he had been completely and utterly in love with the man before him. He thinks… now he  _ knows _ that he still is and this makes him want to help him more than anything. 

“Uh, thanks Eds.” Richie’s face softens and the tremor in his hands seemingly evaporates. Eddie feels a smile tug at his lips at the usage of the familiar nickname. Richie is still in there somewhere. “I really appreciate it.” He elbows Eddie playfully and Eddie laughs at this. He’s still him somewhere beneath whatever trauma has been induced upon him. “You don’t have to  _ eat  _ it, but at least read your fortune.”

“Alright and don’t call me that, asshole.” Eddie snarks back, feeling a warmth in his chest at his ability to draw out  _ his  _ Trashmouth.

Eddie and Richie opening their cookies leads to a chain reaction of the fellow Losers opening their own which proves to be the worst mistake thus far. They are met with a peculiar statement, “ _ Guess Stanley Could Not Cut It”  _ and various creatures that break out of the cookies and attempt to talk to them. Fortune cookies not only have no nutritional value but apparently contain illusive monsters planted by a shape-shifting clown. 

Once the terrors come to a halt, Richie takes initiative in footing the bill which Eddie nearly scoffs at but once he sees the thick wad of cash he cannot help but think that Richie is not being honest.

He dismisses it as good management but Eddie despite not having remembered Richie for twenty something years can sense the lies falling off his tongue. Bev appears mortified and Eddie can see tears streaming down her face and he wants to know why, but she is too immersed in finding Stan’s phone number off of Mike’s phone. Eddie is about to speak up when a slimy voice hisses at Richie. 

Richie is suddenly facing a man that Eddie vaguely remembers seeing with Richie at the Toziers’ funeral. He is seething at Richie and he can see the discomfort roiling in his friend. He is stammering and unable to control the trembles wracking his body as he attempts to defend himself against the shorter man. What kind of family member accosts someone like this in a restaurant? 

He’s snapping about Chechens and something about money. He’s belittling Richie and Eddie is suddenly reminded of his own mother in that this man clearly makes Richie feel small and feeble. 

“Really man, just back off.” Eddie bites, flashing daggers to the other man. 

“Oh, do they really want you around Rich?” Richie’s Uncle sneers. “Do they know what  _ you really do?” _

_ That  _ piques Eddie’s interest and confirms his beliefs from just moments ago that Richie was withholding information from them in regards to why he had that fat stack of cash. 

His interest is suddenly thwarted at the desperation in Richie’s voice as he begs this Fuches character to leave him alone.

“Seriously dude,” Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, attempting to guide Richie away before he is sent into another episode of sorts. He doesn’t know what Richie’s triggers are but Eddie is more than familiar with anxiety and can see an anxiety attack brewing within Richie. 

“I heard about your friend, Chris.” Richie flinches so hard that Eddie snaps his hands off of him, afraid that the physical contact will be overwhelming to him. Who is Chris? “Shame. Su--”

“Fuches, shut up.”

“ You selfish sonofabitch, you fucking ditched me to deal with those fucking psychopaths because you didn’t kill--”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT. I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU. DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?” Richie roars, throwing his fist into the other man’s face. 

Eddie’s eyes widen as the man falls to the ground and Ben quickly grabs Richie as workers around them gasp. Eddie holds the door open as Ben guides Richie out. Richie is shivering and his eyes are wide and breathing erratic. 

“You alright, man?” Eddie asks, concern heavy in his voice. He realizes the stupidity of the question as soon as he asks it. 

Richie stammers over an answer when the bomb of Stanley Uris’s suicide is dropped upon them with an impact that closely imitates that of an atomic blast. 

Eddie feels as if his heart has been wrenched from his chest. He thinks of Stan. He tries to imagine him older and what he would have been like. He will never get to know unless he looks him up with morbid curiosity to find his face somewhere online. That will be his only choice seeing as he will never have the chance to meet him. Eddie is genuinely devastated and expresses such emotion by panicking and yelling at Mike.

Richie remains unnervingly quiet before declaring that he is “fucking out of here.” Eddie thinks that Richie has the right idea and walks toward his car which is conveniently parked next to Richie’s. He opens his mouth to warn him about his Uncle exiting the restaurant but Richie beats him to it by telling him to fuck off. The other man doesn’t get a chance to utter a single word before Richie zips on out. Eddie decides to make like Richie and develop a lead food in order to follow Richie back to the townhouse. 

When Eddie pulls up next to Richie’s rental, he assumes the other man must be inside already packing. He is about to make his way in when he hears a scream from Richie’s car. Richie is still in his car. He’s the one screaming. Eddie whips around to catch the man punching the steering wheel in front of him. He’s shaking violently and hitting himself in the head as if to halt whatever thoughts are racing in that mind of his. Eddie is quick to pull Richie out of whatever trance he is in by knocking on the window.

It proves effective when Riche immediately halts his self abuse and turns to face him. “Man, come on, let’s go.” Eddie wants to pretend he didn’t see what he did in order to speed up this process and to not cause Richie any feelings of malaise. But upon seeing the tears streaming down Richie’s face, he is unable to withhold his concerns. “We gotta go pa-- you okay, dude?”

“Yeah. Just… Stan.” Lies. All lies. Sure, it makes sense to be distraught about Stan’s death. Eddie feels it too… but this reaction cannot simply be the result of Stan’s suicide. If it was just Stan, he might crying softly like Bev and ranting like Eddie. He wouldn’t be screaming and hitting himself in the head.

Richie pushes past him, “Lets get the fuck out of here.” 

Eddie opens his mouth to say something but he finds his jaw snapping shut as Richie sprints up the stairs toward his room, slamming the door behind him. Eddie sighs and returns to his own neighboring room to pack, distantly hearing the voices of Ben and Bev coming in and getting into a heated discussion. Eddie simply sighs and returns to packing his oversized suitcases.

He feels a migraine pounding behind his eye as the stress of the situation finally settles into his veins and as he continues to be bombarded with memories of his past. He opens up one of his migraine prescriptions and dry swallows a pill. He clenches his eyes shut attempting to will away the voice that is certainly his younger self, reminding him about gazebos or whatever. He huffs out an aggressive breath, frustrated at the truth behind the voice. He knows he doesn’t need perhaps any of what he has packed himself under Myra’s watchful eye.

Leaving for Derry had been a feat in itself. Upon returning to their Chelsea apartment in a taxi as opposed to his Escalade, Myra had fallen into a fit of hysterics. She insisted that he needed to go to the emergency room and that he likely had a brain bleed or something. Normally, Eddie would have complied and succumbed to his own fears but after Mike’s phone call, the fear was minimal and his determination was high. He simply said that he needed to go home for an emergency pertaining to his friends and walked straight past her to go and pack.

She had attempted to force him away from his suitcases and began screaming about how he was abandoning her. He did not indulge this and merely stuffed his suitcase with at least two weeks worth of clothes. She ended up accepting that he was indeed leaving and began stuffing his bags with his usual cocktail of pills and various first aid items. Now, he felt a sinking feeling at the sight of the bottles and wonders how he allowed himself to be manipulated once again. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t see the bruises on Bev’s wrists. Maybe they all were caught in some cruel cycle or that stupid clown cursed them into never truly escaping what scared them as children. Eddie did not marry a leper, no. He married his fucking mother.

Eddie groans loudly as he pulls himself to his full 5’9” height and begins to pull the suitcases out of his bedroom. He has more than enough to get him by. Maybe he can put off going back to New York for just a bit. Maybe he can follow Richie to L.A. and get an insight as to what life Richie is now living. Maybe now, with more than enough clothes and plenty of pills he doesn’t need but brings a sick sense of comfort to him, he has ample time to escape and make plans to end things with Myra. Come out. Confess his feelings. Be free.

The idea is vivid in his brain and gives him a surge of adrenaline to quickly drag his suitcases down the stairs where he sees Richie frozen next to the stairs and Bev looking perturbed. With more context, it is discovered that Bev has seen them all die. Horribly. She knew Stan was going to kill himself. Well maybe she didn’t know but she had seen it but there was no way to actually confirm that it would indeed happen. She had been plagued by nightmares and Eddie attempts to reason with her that everyone has nightmares. His whole marriage is a nightmare. He’s just remembered he’s very much gay and is married to his mother. But there is something different about her dreams as Mike indicates. The Deadlights. Eddie doesn’t necessarily remember those from his past but he can recall Bev, thirteen year old Bev, hanging limply in a way that was haunting yet beautiful above them all with glazed over eyes. 

Richie leans against the bar, unable to meet Bev’s eyes before softly asking, “Well can’t we just… leave before It gets to us?”

“None of us get past that.” Bev tells him. “We all… we all die too.” She stares at Richie longer than the rest. She has seen how they all die but Eddie can tell that she seems most disturbed in how she’s seen Richie die. He wants to know how he dies but he really wants to ask how Richie goes too. 

Richie drops his head, remaining quiet while the rest of them argue it out. Eddie wishes for the usual bickering on Richie’s end. It would help back him up right now as he is terrified and wants nothing more than to get the hell out of Derry. Before, Eddie can remember Richie always coming to his defense and protecting him with his unfiltered tongue and knobby fists that could do next to no damage. 

“It just got to Stan first because…”

“He was vulnerable.” Richie mumbles.

“Yeah.” Mike responds, shoulders dropping.

“Pennywise… It got him when we were down there.” Eddie suddenly remembers. 

“What Beverly has seen will eventually come to pass. It’ll happen to all of us.” Mike says, voice desperate. “Unless we stop It.”

“How the hell are we supposed to do that?!” Eddie snaps, body tense and heart pounding. He remembers that clown. They had given it their all when they were at their physical prime and clearly  _ that  _ had not been enough. Statistically speaking, there was almost no way that a bunch of forty-year-olds could beat the creature up any better than they had as kids. Well, at least that's what Eddie thought. There had been no replicated studies to determine whether that was true but that was because most people that encountered a shape-shifting clown were bound to die after one attempt. The Losers, fortunately, were able to replicate this study! Lucky them.

“The Ritual of Chud.” Mike says confidently and Eddie feels his anxiety replaced by doubt. Eddie is only half listening as he grows increasingly baffled as Mike describes some tribal ritual and how living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit or whatever. It sounds like Mike got all of this out of a cokehead’s attempt at writing a thriller novel. 

“A tribal ritual?” Richie asks. “That,” he lets out a hysteric laugh before burying his face into his hands. “That’s ridiculous. It comes back every twenty-seven years? Can’t we just do it then… I have… I can’t do this now.”

“We’ll be seventy years old, asshole.” Eddie bites at him, feeling somewhat guilty as Richie shrinks back into himself. 

Bev meets Richie’s eyes, face twisted into terror as she looks at him. “None of us make it another twenty years and the way it happens…” she cannot find her own word.

Richie drops his chin against his chest, attempting to curl into himself as he leans against the bar. 

“Suppose we don’t beat It this cycle…” Ben says fearfully.

“We die. Horribly.” Eddie cannot help but snap.

Richie meets his eyes. “I don’t think we need the horrible part.”

“I didn’t say it. She said it. Not me.”

“I’ve seen what he’s talking about.” Bill interrupts, pointing toward Mike. “It’s all true. It’s the only way. If we want the ritual to work…”

“We have to remember.” Mike finishes and as everyone accepts this, the front door begins to rattle. 

Everyone immediately tenses up, backing up as they expect Pennywise to break through the door and taunt them all with what scares them most and to make it so they don’t have to worry about tomorrow’s plans regarding the ritual let alone the next twenty-seven years. Eddie backs up against a wall and he vaguely hears Richie calling his name but he’s too mortified to look at anything except the door which finally opens to reveal… Richie’s uncle. He looks irritated and is sporting an angry black eye.

“You could have had the courtesy to take me with you, Rich.” He growls and everyone immediately turns to Richie who slumps weakly.

“Hey, uh man I think you should leave.” Ben suggests.

“Yeah, this is all really personal right now.” Eddie adds as Richie rubs at his tired face.

“Oh I understand but I need Richie to come home. A lot is going on right now.” The man falls into a gentle voice that makes Eddie sick. 

“Fuches, I really can’t do this right now.” Richie pleads. “I’ll be home in a few days. I promise. Just go home.”

“I can’t do that. You didn’t hold your word last time, how can I expect you to  _ now?”  _

“Fuches can we just take this outside, please?”

“Oh so you can rearrange my face, again? You don’t want these assholes to see the kind of man you are?” Fuches laughs as if this is some private joke between all of the Losers at Richie’s expense. “You really don’t want this guy around. He can be incredibly violent as you can see.”

“You were kind of asking for it.” Eddie snaps.

“Oh and what about everyone else?” Fuches hisses at Eddie. Eddie turns to face Richie, confused. Richie doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly despite his impressive size. “He needs me to stay in control, especially when he’s all… all emotional like this. I need to make sure he’s okay. You heard about Chris, huh buddy?” 

“Fuches please stop.” Richie begs, walking around, lowering his voice. Fuches simply gets louder.

“Suicide right?” Eddie feels his heart sink as he strings everything together. Richie has lost not only one friend to suicide today, but  _ two.  _

“Rich, I’m so so--” Eddie starts.

“Or was it? You’re getting sloppy, Richie and you know it. You need to stop thinking and do what you were made to do.”

“You mean what you make me do.” 

“I never said anything about kill--”

“Okay, okay.” Richie interrupts. “We will figure something out, Fuches. I promise. I just can’t talk about this right now. Please. You can stay here with me and we can plan something but right now I need to figure out other stuff with them that could mess up what we,” Richie points to him and the sleazy man that Eddie cannot stand, “have going on. Okay?” 

This seems to satisfy the man. “Alright.”

“Third room on the left. Just let us be, okay? This is really important.” 

“I can see that. Don’t let whatever this shit is distract you from what’s going on at home. You’re in deep shit.” Fuches says before leaving the Losers to their planning session.

“Rich, if you need to figure out this other thing--” Bill starts.

“No, no. I’m fine. Lets just figure out tomorrow.”

“I think Bill is right. We should just get up early and I can explain everything away from here.” Mike suggests and everyone seems to be in agreement. 

Richie sighs and takes the lead up the stairs, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone. 

“Hey, Rich!” Eddie says just as Richie makes it to his door. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Richie says. He’s lying. “I’m just really worn out.” That’s obvious.

“I’m sorry about your other friend.” Eddie offers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Richie’s face turns to paste and Eddie thinks he might pass out or throw up right there. “No. I just want to sleep.”

“Alright, man. I’ll see you in the morning.”

xXx

Everyone is stuck in Derry until they finally take down this stupid clown and this thought alone makes it impossible for Eddie to sleep. He elects to change into soft sweatpants and pulls a hoodie over his polo. He also manages to complete his skincare routine which despite his religious nature in maintaining it, has not proven effective in removing the stress lines that are incredibly deep in his face. Whatever. He’s forty. He wasn’t going to stay soft-faced and smooth his entire life. 

He makes himself a steaming cup of lavender tea with the beaten keurig that sits on the desk in his room. He settles himself in his bed and finds his mind wandering to Richie again. He cannot imagine what he is going through with two friends ending their life in such a disheartening way, so close together. But what confuses him is Fuches. He does remember the man taking Richie out of Derry after his parents died and Richie had said he would write to them. He never did. Initially, Eddie had been furious. But that was the workings of Pennywise as they have all just now discovered.

What really throws Eddie, however, is the implication that Richie is somehow violent. Or the suggestion that Fuches did not make Richie kill something or someone. He had not been able to finish his sentence before Richie jumped on the situation, clearly panicked and uncomfortable that the Losers were witnessing this clearly private matter. Fuches had taken advantage of that and was clearly trying to make the Losers want Richie out. Perhaps the man was trying to portray Richie as something awful and something worth being scared of. 

Richie was easily the least scary person Eddie had ever met. Even more so now as an adult. As a kid, Richie was too skinny to be threatening and the only thing that could have made him slightly threatening was his mouth. But he was brave and willing to fight even if it meant losing. Now, despite his obvious physical growth, he was antsy and timid. He was incredibly fearful and Eddie could not imagine his former best friend doing anything seemingly violent. Sure, he fought in a war. But any violence executed there was prompted by orders. Richie could never do anything bad. 

Eddie sighs, feeling the lavender settle the anxiety in his gut and slowly warm his body from the inside out. His eyes begin to feel heavy and he sets the cup on a paper towel he is stuck using as a makeshift coaster. He settles himself in his bed, about to allow himself to drift into sleep when he hears voices through the paper-thin walls. His room is next to Richie’s and he’s clearly getting heated with his Uncle. He can make out nearly every word. The conversation not only confuses Eddie, but saddens and scares him. 

“You need to get out of here, now. Those Chechens know you’re alive. They have to by now. Do you know how it fucking felt to hear that  _ you  _ were dead? Do you?” Fuches growls. Eddie’s heart drops. Richie had been reported dead?

“Yeah. Must have really sucked to have your pawn taken away. I’m sure you were absolutely broken.” Richie bites back. There’s a squeaking sound suggesting that one of them has removed their body from the cheap bed. Eddie assumes it’s Richie by the weight of the footsteps. Fuches walks loud and heavy. Richie is light and almost sneaky on his feet. 

“You need to stop playing this victim card.” Fuches nearly yells before being hushed by Richie. “You’re in this just as much as me and just because you’re back in this bumfuck town doesn’t mean you can forget what you’re supposed to do.”

“You took everything from me.” Richie says. “You know, I forgot everything about this place. I forgot who  _ I  _ was before you took me. Did you know I used to be funny? That I used to be talkative and fun to be around? That I wasn’t some fuck up that can’t hold a conversation or blow up when someone makes me mad? I used to be a fucking person and  _ you  _ took that away from me when you forced me into this fucking life.”

“I  _ saved  _ you. You weren’t going to amount to fucking shit, Richie. You never applied yourself and I knew the marines was the only thing that made sense for someone as obnoxious as you. I fixed you.”

“Okay so you made me capable of following orders like a goddamn puppet and then decided hey I’m a selfish lowlife and can’t do shit why not make Richie do the dirty work so I can pay my fucking bills because he’s too mentally fucked up to realize what’s wrong.”

“Oh don’t pull that shit, Richie. You knew what you were doing. What are you going to do? Go to the fucking cops and plead insanity?”

“The doctors in Germany would attest to that.” Richie’s tone is bitter.

“You really want to bring that up again?” Fuches laughs something evil and Eddie’s heart is pounding as he absorbs this information as much as he can. “You bring that up and they’ll realize how wrong they were to let you back into the world. I can undo every string I pulled for your stupid ass. They’ll lock you up and keep you in a fucking strait jacket for the rest of your pathetic life.”

Richie is silent. 

“You need to get your head out of your ass and we just need to leave  _ now.  _ You’re in deep shit, Richie. We both are. They’re going to kill us.”

“I just… I really don’t want to do this anymore. I want you to go home and leave me alone forever.” Richie’s voice is angry again. “I don’t want to do this again. I’m over it.”

“You can’t stop this, Rich. You’re a violent guy. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

“Stop saying  _ that!”  _ Richie snaps. “I am not.”

“Chris would say otherwi--”

“SHUT UP.” Skin against skin. Someone falls to the floor.

“You piece of shit.” Fuches groans. “Do you really want to stay here and play with these freaks?” Fuches laughs. “They wouldn’t accept you if they knew about who you are.”

“I’m not  _ this,  _ Fuches!” Richie is seething. “I don’t want to be apart of this anymore and I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“Well until those Bolivians are dead, you have absolutely no say. You fucked up this time and you need to fix it you little prick.”

“I’ll take care of it. I swear but I need you away while I fix _ this _ .” Richie unzips a bag and there’s a moment of silence. “Here. Take this. Go back home. Go anywhere. Go wherever they won’t find you and just… just call me and I’ll fix everything when I can go home. Please. This is too much for me now, Fuches. I-I…” his voice breaks. “I wanted to…”

“Hey, Rich, stop that.” Fuches says, voice suddenly calm. Eddie thinks it seems genuine. He sounds somewhat concerned. “What are we at?”

“After you got me home after Korangal.”

“That bad, huh? Do you really think you should be here then? Why not finish the job and we can go back to Ohio and you can have that break you wanted. I don’t want to see you like the old Richie again.”

“I know.” Richie sighs. “I really need to take care of this, though. You… you won’t understand this. This takes precedence over everything for me right now. Please respect that.”

“I can do that.” Fuches sighs. “I’m going to get a ride and leave now. You better keep your head on straight, alright? We aren’t finished here. You need to finish this job and cover our asses.”

“Yeah. I get that.” Richie mumbles.

“I’ll see you soon. Stay in touch.” Fuches says and Eddie hears the door open and close. Heavy steps go down the stairs and the front door opens, then shuts. 

His heart is pounding as he attempts to piece together this information. He understands that Richie was in the military and there’s definitely some trauma associated with that. But clearly there is something dark behind Richie’s surface. Insanity? Killing? What is this deal with Chechens and Bolivians? Someone is after Richie? Is he in a mob or something? None of this makes sense and Eddie wants to confront him but he cannot will himself to do so. He… he’s scared. He is scared not only for Richie but  _ of Richie.  _

Richie hit the nail on the head earlier, Eddie thinks. Richie used to be someone that made everyone laugh and had a personality that charmed everyone… or the only six people that mattered to him or were willing to put up with “your mom” jokes and crude dick humor. Now he was nothing resembling that person. He was not what Eddie used to admire. He was molded into something different. Too different. And that was only what Eddie could detect from a surface level and that frightened him.

He needed answers. He needed his Richie. Right now, however, he needed sleep. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was remotely okay! Am try. I am incorporating bits of It CH. 2 but I'm altering it obviously because Barry!Richie is not the same as real Richie? Also my memory sucks. :)
> 
> Barry is supposedly set to film season 3 in April but I have a feeling that's going to be halted given the state the country is in at the moment. I don't blame them. Gotta keep everyone HEALTHY!!!! But I am so stoked for season 3!
> 
> You cannot convince me otherwise. Barry Berkman is baby. The symbolism behind Berkman and Block is fucking beAUTIFUL. I've watched the show all the way through about 5 times because my friends make me watch it with them when they watch it and I always find more symbolism each time and maybe everything I find is an Olympian level stretch but holy shit it's so beautiful shot and well executed and I genuinely ADORE the show. It's great!! Wow! 
> 
> Stay healthy!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to repost this because I accidentally forgot to copy a whole ass portion of it! I realized it when I noticed the word count seemed kind of off to me. 
> 
> I struggled a lot with this one because it was a little odd to write seeing as it takes place during an empty portion of both CH. 2 and the actual show itself. I'm not sure if it's decent but an attempt has been made!

Fuches rubs his shoulder in a way that Richie assumes it meant to be affectionate. He is not certain. He digs into the depths of his jacket where he pulls out a small bag and sets it on the dresser.

“Just in case, Rich.” He smiles at him. “You never know.” Then he walks out and Richie waits to hear the sound of a car picking him up and taking him far away from here and away from the business Richie has to complete because he decided to slice open his hand like an idiot when he was thirteen. Was this pact really binding? After all he was thirteen and no lawyer was present. 

With Fuches gone, Richie finally collapses onto his bed and feels tears burning his eyes. He drops his head into his hands and feels his shoulders begin to tremble. He should just leave. He knows he should. He should just go back to L.A. and kill the Chechens because clearly all he’s good for is killing. He used to be more. He knew that. He had a life. He used to be good for making people laugh and lightening the mood-- now all he did was make people uncomfortable with his inability to hold a conversation because he was too scared to look anyone in the eye or speak for he never knew what could tumble out of his mouth when given the opportunity to speak too long. Hell, without prompting, he had given Gene a confession; luckily he had not put the pieces together and realized the hard truth behind Richie’s words. 

Was he really already focused on his next target? Was he really this violent piece of shit? He didn’t want to think so, but everything indicated that that’s all he is and would ever be. He had nothing. He once had the best friends in the world as he was coming to realize as more memories seeped into the forefront of his disturbed mind. He had the acting class, but that was something that he shouldn’t continue especially after this was all over. He had Chris but he had selfishly cover his own ass by putting a bullet through his friend’s fucking head. 

There was nothing for him. He had nothing except a sharp eye and a steady hand that he only used to kill people. He had Fuches and Fuches only used him for his own benefit. He didn’t care about him as Richie once believed. He was his pawn and would never be anything more. He was once something but the more Richie thought about it, the more he was coming to realize that that person was long gone. 

But maybe there is another life for him. Maybe it’s not all gone. 

_ It is dead. He is ready to get out of Derry for the rest of his life. It’s nothing more than a faint memory to him and Eddie. Eddie. He had asked Eddie to come with him to L.A. Eddie didn’t even hesitate before yanking his wedding ring off and telling him  _ “Yes!”  _ They live together in a modern house that is right by the coast. Every single day they wake up to the orange glow of the sunset. Eddie presses a kiss to his forehead before going on his morning runs and Richie spends hours running lines for the lead role in a huge film. After his run, Eddie loves watching Richie in his element as he recites lines in the sand. _

_ Eddie’s doe eyes are full of love and admiration as he watches Richie receive his first of many Oscars. Richie thanks no one except Eddie for his success. _

_ Richie and Eddie get married on the beach next to their own home. It’s a small affair with no one except their dogs, their adopted daughter, and of course, the Losers. Everyone is happy. Richie has put his past behind him. He doesn’t remember his way around a gun. He only knows how to master roles of an impressive range and how to make his kids and husband smile with his witty humor and surprisingly decent cooking skills. _

_ When his daughter pulls out a picture of a balding man next to him, Richie does not recognize the man and tells her that she can stow it away. They need to make room for her newly adopted brother. He knows nothing except the happy life he now lives with Eddie.  _

Richie bites his lip painfully as sobs threaten to quake him. He regrets joining that acting class, he thinks. Prior to that, he had allowed himself to feel no remorse and had been trained not to consider his actions. Gene had successfully opened something within him that allowed him to feel again. It wasn’t the type of feelings a normal person should feel, no. Nothing about Richie’s mental state had been anything resembling normal in years. But it was enough where he could register the fact that there was a fallout after he did what he did and that was all that he could focus on. He couldn’t handle it. All Richie wanted to do was sleep. But each time he closed his eyes, images of what was to come in regards to Chris’s family burst across his mind in vivid detail. 

Richie rubs his eyes roughly, feeling tears slide down his cheeks. He sighs to himself and grabs a pair of pajamas and his toiletry bag. He might as well shower. He hasn’t done so before coming to Derry and he can feel a layer of grime (and remnants of what has to be Chris’s blood) collecting upon his clammy skin. He sets his pajamas on the sink and places his own shampoo and conditioner bottles into the shower. He strips away his clothing and stands naked outside of the shower while he attempts to maneuver the faucets into a decent temperature. Finally, he finds an area that is not arctic ocean cold but not satan piss hot. Mildly scalding. Just perfect for him. 

He steps in and closes his eyes as he allows the warm spray to wet his face. He reaches for his shampoo and scrubs the minty-scented substance into his hair. Sally had recommended this particular shampoo and conditioner regime when she had noticed how hard the LA water had been on his hair. It was decent stuff but he couldn’t pretend that the scent didn’t make his eyes tingle. He rinses and repeats and begins to scrub at his body with slight aggression. He watches as actual dirt swirls down the drain. He must have looked absolutely appalling to the other Losers when they first saw him at the restaurant. 

As he continues rinsing, a flash of red catches his eye. He looks down and sees blood swirling down the drain. Did he cut himself on something? He sees that his hands are coated in the red substance. It is too much to have come from the wound he had caused when he’d had his breakdown backstage. It seems to come from nothing but continues to pour in heaps from an unknown source in his palms. His eyes bug out and he quickly opens the curtain and is met face-to-face with a bloody faced Chris.

He stumbles back, grabbing the curtain roughly enough to yank it off it’s rings to make himself decent-- but that’s the least of his worries as the friend he believed to be dead stands before him. Richie’s chest begins to heave up and down and his vocal cords fail him as nothing spills past his lips except a few gasping breaths. 

“Why Richie?” Chris begs, blood flowing from the bullet-wound in his forehead. “Why did you do it?

Richie opens his mouth and closes it again, unable to find his voice, stumbling backward.

Chris inches toward him. “I-I have a kid, Rich?  _ Why?” _

“Chris, I…” Richie chokes out. 

Chris suddenly grins a mouth full of sharp teeth and his eyes are a glowing gold color. It’s the fucking clown, Richie realizes. “You’re the only monster I see in this town.” 

“No… you’re…”

“Just slightly above your kill count, huh Richie?” He moves across the tile in the blink of an eye and grabs Richie around the neck, knocking him to the floor of the shower. Blood starts pouring in bucket-amounts from the wound and he starts laughing maniacally as he edges closer to Richie, his smile starting to split grotesquely across Chris’s face. 

Richie suddenly finds his voice and begins screaming at the top of his lungs. He starts kicking and punching as Pennywise/Chris moves his face closer to his, jaw starting to unhinge. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” He arches his neck back, releasing another ear-splitting shriek. His shouts are suddenly cut off as Chris crushes his throat in a bruising vice. Black begins to swim in his vision as he fights weakly against the hands.

“RICHIE?” A feminine voice yells back and Chris looks to the side and then back at Richie, a monstrous growl coming from deep within It’s chest. He releases his grip on Richie’s neck who falls into a painful coughing fit as air finally returns to his deprived lungs. 

“I’ll see you real soon, Richie.” Chris laughs before crawling out the window just as Bev swings the door open to see a choking Richie clutching a shower curtain to his torso as water continues to spill over his head and his entire body shakes.

“Richie!” Bev runs over, quickly shutting the water off . 

“There was…” Richie wheezes and looks down at the hands clutching the curtain and sees that there is no blood. “I-I…”

“You saw It.” She says softly, cupping his scared face with her soft hands. Her soft hands touch his throat where he knows there must be welts from where he was choked. That, he couldn’t have imagined. “Oh Richie…” 

He nods silently, tears falling from his face. “It was… I…” 

“It’s okay, honey. I know.” She hushes him.

“Bev, I can’t do this. I can’t stay here anymore. I need to leave.”

“You have to.” Bev swallows, handing Richie a towel to give him more dignity than the shower curtain could provide. “Your death scared me the most.”

He looks at her. “What…”

“I can’t say Richie. You know I can’t. I… I just… you lied to us. Didn’t you? About what you do for a living?”

Richie freezes. “What do you think I do?”

“You’re involved with a lot of bad people, aren’t you?” She asks him as he slides the towel from under the curtain and around his waist, securing it so he is able to step out of the shower. 

“How do you know I’m not the bad people?” He asks quietly, rubbing absently at his sore throat.

“Richie, you’re not bad. I know you.”

“No you don’t. I saw how  _ you  _ looked at me.” Bev sighs. “I see how everyone looked at me. You all… you all think I’m a fucking psycho.” His voice raises slightly and he feels his fists clenching at his sides. He’s suddenly reminded of the way he exploded on his classmates whilst practicing for Macbeth when they implied that someone who kills has a soul that is fucked. He sees that Bev takes a step back. He’s scaring Bev. He’s a fucking piece of shit. His soul  _ is  _ fucked.

“Richie, sweetie, we don’t--”

“Richie… were you screaming?” Richie hears Eddie ask from the entrance to Richie’s bedroom and suddenly he feels extremely self-conscious to be caught in nothing but a towel in front of Eddie. He’s in decent shape having been a marine. But traveling constantly for his work and depressive episodes spent on the couch have turned the once bulky muscles around his abdomen slightly soft. 

His heart does a weird skipping thing Richie wants to hate but he knows that he can’t. He grabs his sweatshirt from off the sink and slides it on. Bev hands him his boxers which he manages to put on from under the towel without exposing himself and then drapes it across the sink to dry. 

“I’m fine.” He lies just as Eddie walks in. 

“You don’t have to lie, Rich.” Eddie says, crossing his arms. 

“Richie, we don’t think you’re psycho.” Bev tells him. 

“Wait, what’s going on here?” Eddie asks and Richie suddenly feels bad as he notices Eddie’s mussed hair, suggesting that his shouts have woken him from his slumber. He wonders if the other Losers are awake too. Maybe they didn’t care because it was him screaming for help. He wasn’t their Richie. What use did they have for him? He should’ve just stayed quiet and let the fucking clown do the world a favor. “What happened to your neck?” Eddie’s voice is one of distress.

“I fell.” Richie says as Bev says, “He saw It.” 

“You saw the clown?” Eddie gasps. 

“I-I saw my f--”No. It was the friend I killed just before coming here to have a shitty reunion dinner with all of you guys. “Yeah. I was showering and I saw… blood and It was standing outside my shower and grabbed me. I’m fine now.”

Eddie has a flicker of doubt across his face but rather than expelling his thoughts he says, “That’s not fine, Rich.” Eddie says, his large brown eyes wide with fear. Richie cannot help but notice that Eddie never grew into his big, doe eyes. “You’re not fine. Your neck, Rich…”

“No. It’s not.” Bev agrees. “The fact that It is already starting to come after  _ us  _ says a lot and the fact that it physically attacked you means It is stronger than we thought. He knows that we’re already vulnerable with Stan dying and he knows  _ you’re  _ vulnerable Richie. That’s why he came after you. He feeds on fear and honey, you’ve looked terrified since you got here.” 

“Well excuse me for being scared about being in the town where we were all attacked by a clown at thirteen.” Richie takes a step away from his friends. Were they his friends? He shouldn’t have friends. “I’m sorry for waking you up. You can go back to bed.” He mumbles. 

“I don’t think you should be alone, Rich.” Bev says.

“I’m  _ fine.  _ Okay? It probably wasn’t even there. I’m just tired.” Richie pleads. “I just want to lay down. I’m really tired.” He really was. 

“Rich… you don’t have to pretend--” Eddie starts.

“Can we stop?” Richie snaps. 

“No. We need to tell Mike. It is already ready for us and we need to get a move on, clearly.” Bev insists, walking out of the bathroom.

“Goddammit!” Richie suddenly shouts, sitting on the toilet seat, gripping at his hair.

“Hey, don’t do that. You’re already receding.” Eddie jokes weakly. “Hey man, look at me.” Richie doesn’t want to. Eddie is so good and he still--  _ NO.  _ He does anyway. “There he is. Hey, Bev is right. It already knows we’re scared and the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can all go home.” 

Richie doesn’t know where home is from here. Part of him wants to ditch Fuches and try to mitigate things in L.A. and do his own thing. Another part of him just wants to go back to Ohio and let Fuches boss him around until he finally snaps. Richie never learned how to function like a normal person. He can only take orders and kill people. 

Eddie touches his neck tenderly and Richie feels goosebumps creep up his arms and hopes Eddie can’t see them. “Jesus Christ. Can you breathe okay?” 

Richie nods. “I’m sorry for waking you up.” Richie mutters.

“Hey, you’re fine.” Eddie says and Richie desperately wants to lean into Eddie’s arms. He is so much like the Eddie he remembers lovi-- _ Stop.  _ He has the same soft smile and bright, twinkling eyes. His touch is still gentle and while he is still one to talk a mile a minute, he still has the most soothing voice. “I don’t mind.”

“You saw It?” Mike nearly shouts as he quickly enters the bathroom. 

“Maybe? I don’t know. I’m a little sleep deprived.” 

“He saw It.” Bev says before Mike can acknowledge anything Richie has said. “It choked him.”

“I mean we basically all saw It when our fortune cookies started attacking us.” Richie tries. “I really am sorry for waking you guys up but can’t we please just go to bed?”

“We need to get a move on.”

“It’s literally two in the morning, Mike.” Richie argues.

“I’m with Rich on this one.” Eddie agrees. “Richie can’t be at one hundred percent right now after all of  _ that.  _ Plus, running around Derry for a killer clown before the sun is out? Probably not the brightest idea.” 

“No. It’s probably not.” Mike sighs. “We need to get to bed and get a move on as fast as possible. It is clearly ready for us and isn’t going to hold back any punches.”

“Yeah, because he did before.” Richie mumbles, surprised that that gets a few snorts from his… friends. Something inside of his chest flutters briefly before his brain graciously flashes an image of Pennywise/Chris across his mind. 

“Are you gonna be okay, Rich?” Mike asks. 

“I’m fine. I swear.” He’s just ridden with incessant guilt for killing his friend and has no idea if he should go back to killing after all of this or attempt to escape a Chechen mob by going into hiding. Just a regular day for Richie Tozier. “I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Richie.” Bev says in a calm voice. “We all need to get some sleep.” Everyone nods in agreement. “I just don’t think you should sleep alone.”

“I’m f--”

“He can sleep in my room.” Eddie says suddenly and Richie feels his stomach plummet.

“No,” Richie starts. He can’t sleep with Eddie. He has nightmares and he’s been hopelessly head over heels for--  _ stop it.  _ “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Richie, it’s probably safest for now. It’s no big deal. It’ll be just like high school.” Eddie teases, grabbing Richie around the wrist and Richie feels his heart skip a beat. 

“Night guys.” Mike says.

“Get some sleep.” Bev tells them as she leaves.

Eddie pulls Richie into his room and Richie cannot say he’s surprised by the ridiculous amount of stuff Eddie has deemed important enough to pack for this impromptu trip. His sheets are slightly undone suggesting that Eddie had either just fallen asleep or he’s used to sleeping in a single position all night long. Richie also notices that the sheets are not the same dingy ones that are on his bed. Eddie must have brought his own and Richie manages to contain his smile at that. Typical Eds.

“Eds, you really don’t have to.” Richie says, curling his arms around himself. 

“Rich, relax. I don’t mind.” Eddie says, moving Richie toward the side of the bed that is still perfectly made. It’s the same side of the bed Richie would take when they would share a bed together in their youth and it makes his stomach feel warm.

“I just don’t want to make you unc--”

“Stop it. You’re my friend, dude.”

“Were you in a frat?” Richie suddenly asks.

“What? No.” Eddie scoffs. “Fraternity boys are nothing but trouble. All they do is party, hurt themselves, and get into nothing but trouble. Could you really see  _ me  _ doing that? If anyone was a frat boy it was definitely you… or Bill.”

“I wasn’t but I’m sure Bill was.” Richie snorts. “I just think you talk like a frat guy with all this dude and bro stuff. It’s…”  _ Cute! Cute! Cute!  _ “Funny.” 

“I do not.” Eddie huffs, pulling the covers over himself.

Richie slips in, attempting not to shift them over on his side too much. He doesn’t want to risk Eddie getting cold throughout the night. Maybe he can manage to sneak away when Eddie goes to sleep.

Eddie yanks the cord of the lamp, encompassing them each in darkness and settles against his pillow. “So, your uncle or whatever, leave?”

“He’s… he’s technically my godfather but I see him as an uncle… and uh, yeah.” Richie mumbles, attempting to not let himself get too relaxed against Eddie’s pillows which were definitely brought from home and are not the pancake ones provided by the Inn. “He had some work stuff back home.”

“I heard--” Eddie pauses before sighing. “Are you guys okay? He seems kinda… douchey.”

“No, he’s… he’s great. Fuches has helped me through a lot.”

“Really?” His tone is disbelieving.

“Yeah. He can be a hardass but I need the push sometimes.” Richie forces a laugh. 

“If you say so, Rich.” Eddie sighs. “Goodnight, man.”

“Night.” Richie says softly, waiting until Eddie’s breathing evens out enough so he can sneak out. However, the longer he stays the deeper he sinks into the fluffy pillows and the heavier his eyes get. The exhaustion from the past few days is finally hitting him full force and just as he thinks he hears a soft snore from Eddie, an uneasy sleep overtakes him. 

Richie’s dreams are plagued with images of Chris’s family. He should not have expected anything less. He finds himself watching his wife again on the kitchen floor sobbing as she drops the phone to the floor. Chris’s son runs in, clearly terrified to see his mother in such a state-- a state Richie has put her in. Richie did this. He’s at fault. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s dying. He’s… comforted. Something soft speaks in his ear, pulling him out of the dream not enough to wake him but enough to make him aware that he is not there. 

“You’re ‘kay, Rich.” The voice is sleepy and sweet. There’s a weight around his middle and Richie melts into the touch and his mind, for the first time in years, goes quiet and he drifts off peacefully.

xXx

Richie wakes up, eyes sore. He realizes he left his contacts in last night. He moves to take them out when he realizes there’s someone pressed against his back, their head buried between his shoulder blades. Briefly, Richie is confused as to where he was and blinks around the fuzzy irritation in his eyes and is suddenly reminded that he fell asleep with Eddie Kaspbrak last night because he happened to see his dead friend outside his shower and ended up waking him and poor Bev up last night and now he’s…  _ FUCK.  _ He’s the little spoon.

He feels his heart rate begin to pick up as the fact that he is in bed, being  _ cuddled  _ by Eddie Kaspbrak truly sinks in. He feels heat pool his stomach and flush his cheeks. He swallows thickly and moves slightly, hoping to move himself away slowly. Instead, Eddie makes a grunting noise and with an unexpected strength, pulls Richie closer to him and Richie might be closested but Richie has slept with enough guys to know  _ exactly  _ what he is feeling against the back of his thigh. He inadvertently squeaks as Eddie mumbles into his back. He knows Eddie is probably thinking he’s with his wife right now, but he can wish that Eddie is thinking--  _ stop it.  _

Richie slowly, with agility he typically saved for hits, manages to slide himself out of Eddie’s hold without waking him. He feels a sinking feeling in himself at the loss of touch and wants to slap himself for it. Who is he to think he is even remotely deserving of Eddie as a friend, let alone something more? 

He slips out of Eddie’s door, hearing the sounds of others showering in their respective bedrooms and decides he might as well start getting ready. He thinks he should wake Eddie but a whisper of embarrassment and self-doubt convinces him otherwise. Instead, he elects to give a harsh knock on the back of Eddie’s door in hopes that will draw the other man from his slumber. He hears a faint grumble and groan which tells him that he’s good to go. 

He returns to his room, speedily changing into a pair of dark wash jeans and a black t-shirt and an oversized grey sweatshirt. He slips on a pair of sneakers that he believes to be suitable against clown fighting and slowly approaches the bathroom, a cold sweat breaking across his neck. It’s still somewhat of a mess with the curtain on the floor and his old clothes left discarded on the floor. He cannot help but fear that the minute he blinks he’s going to be met with the sight of his dead friend again. He reaches for his contact solution and pulls out the old ones, feeling immediate relief. He moves to grab a new pair but the way that his bloodshot eyes scream at him, tells him that perhaps glasses are the way to go for the day. 

He slides them up his nose despite hearing Fuches tell him that it will only serve to slow him down in combat or something. He cannot help but think he looks slightly more approachable with them on. He brushes his hair neatly and decides that this is as good as it’s going to get for a day dedicated to reopening more trauma to add on to what he clearly holds in excess. He is about to head out of his room when he looks at the brown bag Fuches had left on his dresser prior to leaving. He opens it and as expected there’s a gun in there. He picks it up, disconcerted by the way it feels  _ right  _ in his hand. He swallows thickly and slides it into his back pocket where it is easily covered by the large sweatshirt. He makes his way to the lobby where most of the other Losers are already lounging and apparently waiting for him and Eddie who is still not done with whatever his morning routine consists of. 

“I told them you saw It last night.” Bev informs him, before cocking her head. “I like the glasses.”

“Oh… uh thanks and okay.” He mumbles, sitting himself in front of the bar, as far away from everyone as possible. 

“Did you see anything before you saw the clown?” Ben asks him, worry in his eyes.

_ Just blood on my hands because isn’t that ironic? Also, never saw the clown. Just my dead friend.  _ “No. It’s not a big deal. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Richie, we need to know what we’re dealing with if It’s already started attacking us individually.” Mike says. “It choked you.”

“It just… it let me go right after, okay?!” His voice raises and he feels his body trembling against his will. “Can you guys just stop? I just want to get this done with and fucking get out of here and never come back.”

Everyone falls silent and Richie feels himself burning from the inside out. Why is he like this? Has he no self control? He can’t go a single conversation without disappointing those around him by contributing little to no input or exploding upon those who don’t deserve it. He closes his eyes and hears someone trying to talk to him but he shakes his head, not caring. He just wants this done. He _ needs  _ this to be done before he accidentally draws these people into his life of violence and corruption. 

_ They don’t need someone like you with them,  _ a voice laughs in his ear and Richie startles himself back into the moment where everyone seems unknowing to his inner turmoil, simply uneasy about his outburst and unwilling to look at him. They know he’s no good. 

“I didn’t mean to yell.” He mumbles. They probably think Fuches is right-- that he is violent and they shouldn't have him around. 

Bill offers him a soft smile. “It’s all good, trashmouth.”

“What’d I miss?” Eddie’s voice breaks through the tension as he descends down the stairs toward his fellow Losers. He looks at Richie for a second, noticing his glasses, cocks his head but says nothing. Richie feels his face burn.

“Nothing.” Bev tells him and Richie feels eternally grateful. “We’re just about to head out to…” she turns to Mike for an answer.

“The Clubhouse.” Mike informs them.

“Holy shit, I forgot about that thing.” Bill laughs.

“We spent literally every single day there!” Eddie exclaims, bouncing excitedly on his heels in a way that makes Richie’s heart--  _ quit it.  _

“Well, let's get a move on.” Mike says, leading them out.

Richie stuffs his hands in his pockets and has to keep his steps to a slow, half-stride in order to remain at the back of the pack and not impose on a group he feels he shouldn’t be a part of. Internally, he craves this type of closeness, this escape. Logically, it should not feel that way in such circumstances but he yearns to be a part of their lives. But he knows he can’t. He can’t let himself get too close. He made that mistake with Chris and look where that got him? 

They make their way across Derry which feels like a ghost town. It’s no surprise that few people are awake this early in the day, but Richie feels as if there should be some semblance of life within this godforsaken town. All there is is missing posters skimming the streets as they blow through the wind. It feels as if the entire town is empty besides them; like the clown made sure to remove everyone just so he could focus his energy on fighting it out with the group dumb enough to attempt a second round against him. 

_ They beat Pennywise. It’s all behind them now. Richie doesn’t think of the clown again. He’s in a backyard with a huge pool and a screening area. He’s grilling steaks and Eddie is telling everyone about how he knew he loved Richie the moment he met him in kindergarten. His love only grew for Richie as the years came and even though he  _ wrongly  _ married a woman, he knows that Richie was worth the wait. Richie looks back at Eddie, gives him a wink, and turns back to smiling to himself as Eddie continues telling their friends about how Richie proposed to him right after the Emmys.  _

Richie keeps his head low as they make their way through the Barrens. They each hobble over rocks and Eddie, being so…  _ Eddie,  _ takes the time to roll up his jeans as he carefully hops from one rock to the next. Richie decides to stick a few feet behind Eddie who cautiously marks each step while the other Losers, despite being forty, show little to no care in climbing over slimy rocks that could end their ankles right there and then. 

Eddie stays ahead of Richie as they make their way across, toward the woods where the clubhouse lays dug out into the ground. Richie wonders if it’s caved in and they made this little trek for nothing. Everyone continues moving forward, Ben taking the lead since he made the thing and is attempting to figure out exactly where it was. 

Richie feels like they’ve been walking in circles when suddenly Eddie stops in front of him.

“Rich?” Eddie says tentatively, his face one that Richie cannot quite pinpoint. It seems to be a mix of concern, sadness, and fear. “I-I wanted to ask you this at the Inn but you left the room before I got up and… well… I heard you and Fuches last night.”

Richie feels all color leave his face and is thankful that he decided to not have breakfast that morning because otherwise he would be sprinting behind a tree to give it an unwelcome reappearance. 

“Okay.”

“Rich, I don’t… what…” Eddie closes his eyes and takes a breath before looking back up at Richie. “What are you running from?”

“A killer clown?” He answers stupidly.

“No, Rich. What… why are there people after you?”

“Man, keep your voice down.”

“None of them are listening to us. Come on, Rich. We used to tell each other everything.” Eddie pleads. “You said it yourself. You used to be our friend… I think you’re still my friend. But, you are different.”

“Well I’m forty now, okay?” Richie grunts, his air feeling feathery as anxiety builds inside of him. “People change.”

“Why does Fuches say you’re violent? Wh-what’s this thing with a Chechen mob? Why… why did Fuches say you’re becoming the old Richie because you’re not… you’re not anything like you were.”

“Why are you listening to conversations that don’t concern you,  _ Sonia _ ?” Richie growls back, going right for the jugular and he hates himself for it. Why would he remind Eddie of his manipulative, overbearing mother simply because he isn’t capable of telling Eddie the truth. How is this happening to  _ him?  _ He’s gone years without any of this information coming to light and now, in a matter of days, he’s being found out by everyone. He feels the weight of the gun in his jeans and he finds himself staring at Eddie’s face which briefly becomes Chris and flashes back to Eddie. He knows too much.

Eddie falters for a second but he is not deterred by Richie’s sudden attempt at putting a wall between them.“Rich, it does concern me. You’re my friend.” 

“You’re not up anyone else’s ass!”

“Because they’re not y-- they’re not acting the way you are, Rich. Please… trust me. I know you’re going through something and I know you lied last night. I know you didn’t just see the clown. You were never scared of clowns, Richie.”

“Yeah I was… I was in a room wi--”

“Your dead body and your missing poster. You told me when we were in high school. You were scared of being forgotten. Richie I knew you were lying when you said you were scared of clowns that summer and I know you were lying about what you saw last night. You can’t keep this in. You’re making yourself vulnerable, Rich. Stan… he killed…  _ It  _ killed him because he was vulnerable like you said. If you stay like this, you’re next.” 

Who would really care? Eddie? The Losers? No. They’d only been together for less than twelve hours and he already succeeded in making them each wildly uncomfortable with his outbursts and 180 personality. Fuches? Maybe. He wouldn’t have someone to make him money. There really wasn’t anyone that would genuinely care if he ended up like Stan and the longer he was here, the more he was starting to accept that it could be for the best. 

Fuck. Fuches was right. He was becoming old Richie. Or at least Fuche’s “old Richie.” He was the farthest thing from the “old Richie” that came to the mind of the Losers’.

“Eddie, please just dr--”

“FOUND IT!” They hear Ben’s voice from…  _ below  _ the ground. 

“Rich! Eddie!” Mike waves them over. “Come on.”

“We’re talking about this, Rich… I-I care about you.” Eddie tells him as he leads the two of them to the clubhouse which is surprisingly intact after all these years and makes his way down the ladder.

Richie wishes he didn’t. Chris cared too. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attempted incorporating Barry's delusional daydreams from the show. They were brief and lacked detail because I feel like that's the kinda written vibe of a daydream? Idk. Maybe I'm just an unskilled asshole. That's a secret I'll never tell.
> 
> xoxo 
> 
> dumb bitch
> 
> Stay healthy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I randomly remembered that song, Somebody I Used to Know and wow that was a fuckin boP. I was 13 when it came out and I can remember straight jamming to it and belting it whenever I was home alone. That dude straight up dropped one of the best songs of the decade (you can't say otherwise you'd be wrong) and then fucking DIPPED. 
> 
> ANYWAY: We are not sure how we feeling about this one kids. It was rather awkward to write and I was getting the big anger with it. I'm sorry if it lacks substance and feels dull. It's a short one and not a lot could really happen in this one? Am the sorry? I tried?
> 
> Also some parts, such as what happens in the woods right after they're in the Clubhouse, I entirely forget from the movie because I've not had the chance to rewatch it since December and have been primarily reliant on my own shitty memory and the few low-quality clips on youtube. All youtube offers if HD clips of Eddie getting fucking killed in that one AU. So weird, right? Plus I need to shift stuff because I'm really having the Barry-personality shine through because Richie is what the French call, "FUCKING TRAUMATIZED." 
> 
> Hope it's okay!

Seeing Richie so scared and distraught did not sit well with Eddie. That, combined with the rather peculiar and concerning conversation he’d overheard the night before had Eddie’s lungs freezing in what he wanted to think was an asthma attack, but was steadily realizing it was more so linked to the anxiety that often plagued him when things got to be overwhelming; which now, was quite understandable. Returning to your hometown where a shape-shifting clown tried to kill you as a kid and then discovering that you’d fallen for the same lies you did as a child and that your best friend and past (but still current if you really wanted to be honest) crush was clearly suffering in a way that made him open to attack from aforementioned clown, could be enough to fray anyone’s nerves-- especially Eddie,  _ always _ the neurotic one of the Losers. 

He knew Richie was holding back which was so unlike him, Eddie thought as he descended down the ladder and into the musty hangout that he can suddenly recall spending a majority of his teens in. Richie follows him and immediately creeps to a darker corner, avoiding eye contact with Eddie. It might not have been his best move to confront him just now, but Eddie was determined to get answers and wanted to know what was going on with Richie-- beyond the obvious fear that came with being back here. Their conversation was certainly not over and Eddie would not let him continue to be so short and secretive with him. It was something none of them could afford to do right now.

The clown knew how to play up their fears in order to make them seem weak. It struck nerves and dug out the thing that hurt the most and made It’s victims feel so horribly small. It shaped itself to personify those fears in order to make the fears that should not be real or merely a figment of one’s twisted imagination, come to life. Eddie knew Richie saw something in that bathroom that was not the clown. He saw something that left him shooken up. He sensed that the minute he saw his pale face in the bathroom and when he held him through the night-- something Eddie can remember having always wanted to do in his teens but never wanted to do it because of  _ these  _ circumstances. The clown knew how to make Richie tic and if they didn’t know what they were dealing with, not only was Richie in danger, but they all were.

Until he can figure that out, he cannot help but feel a warmth in his chest as he takes in the surroundings of their worn-out, and somewhat foul-smelling hangout. He catches a glimpse of a faded red sphere and puts his hands through the spacing between some rotting wood and blows the dust off a small ball that he remembers once being on the end of a paddle ball.  _ Stan  _ had broken it with his face Eddie thinks, a small laugh caught in his throat as he remembers the boy that he would never get to see how he turned out as an adult.

The rest of the Losers continue to murmur in awe as they stumble across the belongings they left down here at the end of a long day together , not realizing that it would be their last time sitting in their special spot until, well now. All, except Richie. He doesn’t laugh at the embarrassing pictures that are scattered across the floor. He doesn’t tease Eddie by making cracks about how the two of them used to squeeze their bodies into the hammock that Eddie knew would never support their weight again. He doesn’t try to impersonate the clown by hiding in the unlit corner. He does nothing that the old Richie would have done. He simply slouches against a wall, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie and says absolutely nothing.

“It smells so fucking terrible in here.” Eddie decides to mumble loud enough for most of the Losers to hear.

“I know.” Ben snorts. 

“Hey you g-guys?” Bill interjects, holding a dirty coffee can. “I-It’s… This… It’s Stan’s.” Eddie feels the nostalgic atmosphere immediately chill into something resembling sorrow and pain from the others and himself. “F-For the use of L-Losers only.”

Bill starts to open it and Eddie cannot help but feel a chill of fear creep up his spine. Who knows what’s in that thing? Whose to say it’s not a trap planted by the fucking clown? “Bill…” he warns.

It’s just showercaps.  _ The  _ showercaps that they used so, as Stan had told them, wouldn’t get spiders in their hair. Eddie feels his lips quirking up into a smile at the sight of the floral caps. He can remember all of them wearing them, with the exception of Richie who thought they were stupid because who could be afraid of spiders after fighting off a demon clown? Apparently, all of them; not that Eddie had wanted to admit that in front of Richie. He never wanted to see even remotely lame in front of Richie which he definitely did since he had spent a greater majority of his childhood running around in short shorts and with not one, but two fanny packs. 

It’s all somewhat foggy but he remembers Richie teasing him by ignoring rules he’d clearly agreed upon, himself retaliating by knocking Richie’s glasses away only to feel his chest curl at the sight of his soft features not masked by the oversized lenses, and then Stan. Stan, always so helpful and kind toward all of them. He only wanted his friends to be there for him and they tried but no matter what, Stan was always so…

“Sad” Bev murmurs as the memories of a boy, wise beyond his years and so doubtful of their ability to maintain their friendship flashes through her mind.

Turns out Stan was right. They weren’t friends anymore. Not for a lack of trying. Simply because something most likely related to the stupid clown blocked their memories. It took away Eddie’s bravery he’d developed  _ that  _ summer and memories that he wished he’d been able to hold onto and reminisce with the people he had before these last twenty-something years. They all lost a piece of themselves these past decades. Some, Eddie thought to himself as he observed Richie staring at the floor quietly, more than others. 

“He was old before his time.” Ben thinks aloud, a sad smile on his face, as he toys with a cassette tape.

“Yeah.” Eddie aggrees sullenly, his chest hollow. “I wonder what he was like all grown up.” And Eddie did. Was he still so meticulous and particular about everything around him? Or had he loosened up. What kind of life did he have with his now grieving wife? Who did Stanley Uris become when he left this town and who was he before he decided to take his own life?

Richie speaks for the first time since coming down into the Clubhouse, “Probably what he was like as a kid-- the best.” His voice cracks slightly at that. Stan had always been Richie’s best friend when they were kids and his sadness is evident as he thinks about the missing part of their lucky seven.

“Here.” Bill says, tossing a cap to Richie who catches it easily and smiles tiredly. 

His smile falls quickly and he turns to Mike. “Alright Mike, what are we doing here?”

“The ritual,” and it takes every bit of Eddie’s entire being not to groan at that, “to perform it, requires a sacrifice.”

Everyone is silent. Eddie expects Richie to make some joke about that. He doesn’t. Like he’s done since coming back to Derry, he attempts to make his large form as small as humanly possible. It shouldn’t be successful, but it is.

“The past is buried, but you’re gonna have to dig it up. Piece by piece. And these pieces, these artifacts that’s why we’re here.  _ They’re _ what you sacrifice and since Stan isn’t here to find his I figured we should all be here to find his artifact”

A nice sentiment, Eddie thinks to himself as he pulls one of the caps on his head. He cannot help but notice how much more snug it feels than it had as a kid. “I think Bill just did that.” The showercaps are Stan’s artifact. They were something special to him because it was one of the last things he did for his friends.

They spend a few moments longer, taking in the Clubhouse before climbing back up the ladder. Eddie briefly wonders if this will be the last time they go down there. They settle themselves, turned to Mike who is their only guide through all of this seeing as he’s spent his time in Derry doing nothing except more research than Eddie did for his graduate dissertation. If one could pursue a genuine career with the knowledge of a town known for missing children and weird curses, Mike would be at the top of his field, followed by the younger version of Ben who spent his time doing such research solely out of curiosity fueled by loneliness. 

“Where do we find these artifacts?” Ben asks, crossing his arms over his muscled chest.

“You find them  _ alone _ .” Mike informs them and  _ that  _ is not something Eddie thinks sounds even remotely safe. 

Eddie laughs weakly, “Statistically speaking, based on past scenarios,” said scenarios being their encounters with the fucking clown in his crackhouse, “we would do much better as a group.”

“Uh,” Richie chimes in, “I don’t think… splitting up doesn’t seem safe.” 

“We were together that summer.” Eddie states. “That’s how we beat It, then.”

“But we weren’t. Not the whole summer.”

“The fight.” Bev says suddenly, realization dawning upon her face.

“Shit.” Eddie grumbles. 

“We all have tokens scattered around this town and we have to find them alone. There’s not enough time for all of us to run around from place to place. We know what these tokens are. Stan’s is the shower cap. You have to find something you had during that time that you can sacrifice when we perform the ritual tonight.”

“Alright, then.” Bill sighs. 

“Stay safe.” Mike says as they each begin to go their separate ways to find their own token.

Eddie already knows his. The minute he thought about being alone after that fight, his head immediately went to the time he encountered the clown by himself in the basement of the pharmacy. He remembers his mom, well not really his mom, begging him to save her. He hadn’t. She called him weak. She said she  _ knew  _ he was weak and although it wasn’t really her speaking, but a figment based on his own sick fears, Eddie knew that is what his mom really thought of him. That time of isolation away from his friends had been the worst. He lost anyone who had any ounce of faith in him and thought he was brave.

Richie is taking long strides toward wherever the hell his token is and Eddie immediately decides to stop him. “Hey Rich!” He calls, halting Richie in his footsteps, his shoulders tensing.

“Man, we… Mike says we don’t have a lot of time.” 

“I know. I told you I wanted to talk to you though.” Eddie insists. 

Richie rubs the side of his face, shifting his glasses upward and sighing heavily. Eddie thinks the glasses make him look kinder, softer especially now that they don’t dwarf his face like they had as a kid. “I don’t know what to tell you, Eddie.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“I’m forty, Eddie. I’m not going to be the same person.” Richie bites back, an almost animalistically angry look upon his once gentle face. “Can you please just stop this? I just want to get this done so I can get home.”

“You can’t act like this. You’re making yourself a target by isolating yourself and keeping secrets, Richie.”

“Like you guys don’t!” Richie suddenly advances on him and Eddie is terrified for a moment. Richie’s mouth is agape and he shrinks back on himself. “Sorry.” He’s being genuine.

“Okay, yeah. I married my mom basically.”

“Taking my woman, Kaspbrak?” Richie snorts and Eddie beams at the glimmer of  _ his  _ old Richie not whatever “old Richie” Fuches had mentioned and implied was a negative thing. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” Eddie punches his shoulder, slightly taken aback by his friend’s sheer mass. 

“Takes one to know one.” Richie laughs quietly. “Um, I’m just stressed about being home I guess. And well, Stan. And you obviously heard that my one friend… he… he’s gone.” The way Richie’s face goes white speaks volumes to Eddie.

“You saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Richie swallows hard. “I did.”

“Okay, well you can’t give It the chance to use that against you and make you… so open to attack like Stan was. “I know losing a friend is hard but you can’t be scared of that. It wasn’t your fault Richie.”

Richie’s shoulders drop. “What if it was though?” He sounds so feeble. He reminds Eddie of himself as a child for just a moment-- the uncertainty and self-doubt.

“What? Richie you can’t blame yourself for your friend doing that.”

Richie nods quietly. “Yeah. Okay.” Richie doesn’t believe him. 

“And this stuff with your Uncle… I don’t think you should continue doing whatever he has you in. I don’t know what exactly I heard, but you’re in deep shit, Rich.  _ That’s  _ obvious.”

“You’re telling me.” Richie chuckles sadly. “I’m figuring stuff out. I just need… I need to get this all over with Eddie before I can do that. I need to get out of here and… and away from you guys before I figure that out.”

“What about when this is over?” Eddie asks, suddenly distraught. What does Richie mean, away from them? Does he  _ not  _ want to see them. Sure the circumstances aren’t exactly optimal but Eddie and Bill have already joked about starting their own group chat once they find a free moment and potentially rounding up the Losers in the future.

“What do you mean?” 

“Aren’t you going to… stay friends with us after we kill It?”

“Eddie I can’t… I can’t do this right now. I need to go find this stupid artifact, okay?” Eddie opens his mouth to speak but Richie is already taking long and powerful strides in the opposite direction to attain his own token. 

Eddie’s shoulders drop and sadness freezes his veins at the prospect of going the rest of his life without any of the Losers again. His life, although he had been unaware of it, was truly empty these last few decades. He let himself fall into a cycle that had once been halted with the help of his Losers. He was engaged in a loveless marriage that only made him feel miserable and like a fucking child. He had no other friends besides the ones he chatted at by the water cooler at a job he absolutely despised for its dullness. His life was so completely and utterly unfulfilling and despite not wanting to be back here to kill a clown, he would rather be here battling this monster next to his best friends than spending another minute living such a mediocre life. 

xXx

There is finally some semblance of life downtown, Eddie immediately notices. People are crowding the streets as they enjoy the parades with the band uniforms that Eddie cannot help but notice have not changed since he graduated from Derry High. They probably still smell just as musty as he can remember them reeking anytime he did decide to attend a sporting event with one of the other Losers-- typically Richie. Richie always liked throwing popcorn as unsuspecting spectators and blaring a concealed airhorn anytime the opposing team was on offense. Eddie liked to yell at him for it because morally, it was wrong but he always thought it was funny and Richie would just throw an arm around him and tell him to “lighten up, Francis.” 

At first Eddie thinks it’s nice that there are people around for it was way too eerie when they trekked down the streets earlier that morning and there was not a single whisper of life. He immediately changes his mind when some stupid kid runs straight into him with a dozen balloons.

“ASSHOLE!” He snaps at the kid who decidedly ignores him or is too immersed in whatever was too important for him to pay attention to where he was going and not bash people in the head with his stupid fucking balloons. Maybe it was a good thing he and Myra never had kids. Not only would that mean it would be harder to divorce her once he was finally done with all this shit-- something that occurred to him as soon as Mike called him-- but he also wasn’t the most… patient of people. Plus, he had a life of trauma that he himself was not recovered from. That itself was enough to make him too nervous to have a child and unintentionally continue the cycle of fear and doubt.

He jogs across the street, not wanting to risk getting concussed by any other stupid balloons. He enters Keene’s and finds that it really hasn’t changed beyond the fact that he is now taller than the shelves and the labels of the products are more modern. He approaches the counter which he once could barely see over and sees a familiar man doing something… Eddie can’t exactly pinpoint but he certainly doesn’t want to know. He realizes the man is fucking Mr. Keene and all he can wonder is how the hell is this dude still alive.

“Can I help you?” The man rasps, making his way over to Eddie.

“Yeah, I called in... I had a prescription called in for Kaspbrak.” He stammers, still in a state of disbelief.

“Kaspbrak?” 

“It’s an inhaler.”

“Uh… Eddie Kaspbrak?” He moves as fast as a sloth and it’s starting to grate on Eddie’s nerves.

“Uh-huh. That’s me.” 

“I remember you.” The man says. 

Of course he does, Eddie thinks. He helped lie to him alongside his mother for a majority of his life. How could he forget the kid that foolishly swallowed sugar pills and puffed on a water vapor inhaler. “Yeah.” Eddie laughs bitterly.

“How’s your mom?” and the way he asks it makes Eddie uncomfortable. He almost seems aroused by the prospect of his mother.

“Uh, well she died a few years ago. It’s very sad. It was from liver cancer an--”

“What’s that?” the creepy man asks, pointing toward Eddie’s face with a liver-spotted hand. Immediately, Eddie feels himself tense up.

“What’s what?”

“That.” The man says and with no respect for personal boundaries, jabs his finger into Eddie’s cheek. 

“Alright.” Eddie grumbles, having had enough of this bullshit. “Okay. It’s not gonna pop. It’s a mole.” He slaps at the man’s hand, thoroughly over this. 

“It might  _ not  _ be cancer.” He wheezes out and suddenly all of Eddie’s fears electrify through his amygdala or whereever the fuck his therapist told him his fear center was. Images of sick, injured, dying people flash across his mind and his heart begins to pound. He wants to open up the inhaler  _ now  _ and attempt to calm himself with the fake medication. 

“Cancer?” Eddie gasps as his breath grows thin.

The man laughs a little. “But it might be.” He slaps Eddie’s face as if this is some inside joke shared between the two of them but Eddie is not finding any of this particularly funny. “You just stay here, I’ll get you something.”

“Okay.” Eddie manages, his shoulders trembling. 

He closes his eyes and practices the exercises his therapist taught him before tuning in back into reality. It’s not cancer. It’s not. The man just wants to sell him some bullshit ointment that is really just cocoa butter or something to apply to his face and clog his pores. He’s fine. He’s healthy. He wants to leave but something in the back of his mind possesses him to go toward the basement of the pharmacy where he was once tormented by that stupid leper.

He makes his way down the creaky steps and stands in the middle of the dusty room, the buzz of the lights the only thing filling the eerie silence. He feels his palms grow clammy and his heart return to the same palpitations it had when Keene brought up the very unlikely case that his childhood mole that had been unchanging (which he knew to be certain as he checked all his moles regularly and if he had a notebook documenting them, well that was a secret no one had to know) for his entire life.

He mumbles words of reassurance to himself as he dumbly makes his way to the curtained room, convincing himself that the clown-leper cannot be there this time. It’s all just a memory. He yanks open the curtain and is met with old, dusty shelves that should trigger his nonexistent allergies, a few old pill bottles, and a large scale. Nothing. It’s empty. He’s fine. He doesn’t have to worry. He doesn’t have asthma, a compromised immune system, and he certainly does not have cancer. He doesn’t have to worry about a stupid leper.

Until he turns around and there’s the stupid leper. It grabs Eddie around his skull and shoves him into the wall with a force that should not come from something so sickly and disease-ridden. It grasps at Eddie’s face and Eddie hates the way It’s bandaged hands feel so filthy upon his face. 

The longue tongue, cold and bumpy, attempts to lick his face as Eddie struggles against It. Eddie puts his hands around his neck and squeezes while arching his face away from the creature, cringing as a milky substance bursts from one of Its eyes, narrowly missing his face. He notices something. The leper is becoming… smaller? Just moments ago, it stood taller than Mike or Richie and now they were at eye level. Eddie was making the stupid thing small because Pennywise clearly abided by the same rules of their childhood.

With a burst of strength, Eddie throws his weight against the thing and forces it against the opposite wall. The thing continues to struggle and begins to shrink more. It’s dying in his grasp. He’s winning. This thing has no power over him anymore. It’s a fucking joke.

“FUCK YOU!” Eddie screams not only for himself now, but himself then who could not even get near the thing without running away. “FUCK YO---” and then black vomit spews from the thing’s mouth into Eddie’s in a manner all too familar to when It attacked him the second time in the Neibolt house. 

He forces himself to let go, the wave of disgust too strong for him to handle the viscous liquid hitting him in the face like this. “GUH!” He gasps as he wipes his face with equally revolting hands. Once his eyes are clear he sees that It is gone. It used the vomit as a distraction so It could get away. 

“What the fuck?!” He gasps, sprinting out of the basement and toward the door. It won’t fucking open. He’s trapped. The clown has him trapped and he’s going to fucking die. 

“Push.” A snide voice he recognizes to be Greta Keene snaps at him. “Not pull you moron.” Classic Greta.

“Ha, thanks.” He squeaks before sprinting out of the building. Hopefully he never has to return to that place ever again. If he does, well fuck what Mike says. He’s not going alone.

xXx

He makes his way back to the Inn, mumbling to himself in order to make sense of the situation that truly makes no fucking sense. Bev and Ben look at him and attempt to talk to him but he’s not having it. He just wants to get himself cleaned up from this fucking mess and get this over with. He has his stupid token and he wants out of stupid place. 

He immediately goes to his room, grabs some of his toiletries and begins washing his face as he grumbles to himself. Fucking Leper. Fucking Mike. Fucking Derry. Once he rinses his face enough for the water not to go down the drain with swirls of black, he decides he can probably hop in the shower. He closes the mirror and is met with the sight of a rat-faced man.

“It’s your time Eddie.” The man says excitedly. Then suddenly there’s a knife in his face, between his teeth and barely missing his tongue. 

The pain is sharp and immediate but the remaining adrenaline from the leper fight seems to kick in and he is all but numb to everything except the flow of blood from his cheek and the pressure of the bade against his tongue as he gasps. A knife. Fucking Henry Bowers. Jesus. He still has his ridiculous mullet.

“Wha--Why would you do that!?” He asks which is stupid. He’s fucking psycho. He is trembling and Bowers is actually impersonating him.

“Because he says it’s your time!!!” He cackles maniacally.

“Who says it’s my time?!” Eddie asks but it’s barely audible as he’s not trying to slice his tongue against the knife in his fucking mouth. And then like Bowers, Eddie finds himself laughing. Why? He has no fucking clue.

Bowers stops laughing and a possessed expression melts onto his face. Eddie wishes he would keep laughing. “You know Eddie. You know.” Eddie backs up, trying not to slip on his own blood as he steps in the shower-- the only safe place at the moment or at least that’s what his brain is telling him. “Time to float.”

He begins laughing and Eddie laughs with him as he crouches into the shower, shutting the curtain. Of course this fucker is in cahoots with the clown. Eddie has to think fast. He can hear Henry’s flat feet approaching him. He needs to defend himself but he has nothing except… a knife in his face. So, against medical practice, he slowly pulls the thing out of his face thankful that the adrenaline coursing through his veins prevents him from feeling the agony. He stands up and holds it at a height where it should hit the other man in a vital spot and waits.

“Where’d he go?” Henry hisses. “Now give me back my FUCKIN KNI--” He stabs him right in the chest, eliciting a small whimper from the man. He steps back, bringing the curtain down with him. 

Eddie is frozen for a moment and his hand remains in the same position as if he were still holding Bower’s blade. He slowly creeps away while the man stares down at the knife in his chest. He slips on the blood that is now freely pouring from his cheek and knocks down a towel rack and because Eddie desperately wants to get one last dig at this fucker he tells him, “You should cut that fucking mullet. It’s been like thirty years, man.”

He stumbles out, leaning against the wall in fear that he may pass out from not only blood loss but genuine shock. It’s somewhat jarring to be stabbed in the face from your junior high bully that apparently is connected to the shape-shifting space clown that just tried to kill you not even an hour ago. 

“GUYS!” He screams. 

He hears the sound of two separate pairs of shoes sprint up the stairs.

“Eds?” Bev’s concerned voice yells back. She immediately shrieks upon seeing him. 

“Jesus Eddie! What the hell!?” Ben exclaims, eyes bugging out.

Eddie allows himself to slide down the wall where Bev immediately kneels next to him, eyes terrified as she sees blood seeping through the slit in his face. 

“Bowers is in my room.” He says, feeling rather dazed. 

Something shatters from his room. He should care and be concerned but he can’t. Not anymore. 

“Is it bad?” He asks fearfully as she touches the wound. 

“It’s…” Bev stammers as she attempts to put pressure on the wound without opening it further. 

“He’s gone.” Ben says as he returns. “He… he drove away.”

“That fu-fucker is alive?” Eddie murmurs. 

“Yeah.” Ben sighs. “I’ll get a first aid kit.”

Eddie would prefer a hospital as opposed to whatever treatment his unqualified friends are about to give him. Out of all his friends,  _ he’s  _ the one that is definitely most competent when it comes to medical treatment. Afterall, he’s the one that basically performed surgery on Ben and took care of the rest of the Losers-- especially Richie since Richie was as graceful as he was quiet (at the time). He can probably go after this and find a decent plastic surgeon to hopefully make the scar less visible so he can actually maintain his job or get a new one some day.

“Are you okay?” Bev asks him gently. Of course he’s not but he’s not about to be a dick to Bev.

“I… I will be?” It’s a question if anything. 

Ben returns with one he managed to find at the front desk and the two of them get to work on stitching his cheek with his instruction of course. 

“Richie left.” Ben mumbles as he patches a gauze pad onto Eddie’s cheek.

“You said you got him to stay.” Bev says as Eddie says. “What?” Did Richie really leave them? Sure he’s different but Eddie would never expect him to abandon his friends. He cannot help but feel a spark of anger. 

“His car was gone.”

“Jesus.” Bev groans. “This… we can’t do this unless we’re all here.”

“We have to get back to Mike.” Ben says. “He told us to meet him back at the library once we had our tokens. We need to go and then we’ll figure this Richie thing out then.”

Eddie nods, pulling himself up. “Alright, lets go.” He says with more strength than he feels. He’s been attacked by a leper, stabbed by Bowers, and now Richie is gone to who knows where? Everything is spiraling and Eddie knows that this is just what It wants. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it wasn't disappointing. If it was, idk roast me. Am doing a spicy try, dammit. Ahhh.
> 
> I hope ya are all staying healthy right now! I know it's scary and stressful but we gotta flatten that curve so season 3 of Barry can start filming. lmao. JKJKJKJK That was a bad joke. No, we gotta be smart to help everyone, including ourselves, that are struggling rn!
> 
> Try not to do anything too drastic during quarantine but if you're going to, do it to your hair. It grows back. DON'T DO IT TO YOUR EYEBROWS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. 
> 
> Stay healthy! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else just struggling big time under quarantine and feeling their mental state crumble day by day? Because same. Aye. Shit blows but stay inside and stay healthy friends.
> 
> An attempt was made here and Idk how I feel about this one but I did try! I was struggling a bit here and I hope it's not too obvious so here's a short one again! 
> 
> TW: F-slur bc Henry Bowers/arcade trauma is mentioned here!

The idea of staying in Derry and reliving his past trauma just so he can find some stupid artifact from his previously forgotten childhood is not exactly how Richie wanted to spend his day. Unfortunately, Richie doesn’t seem to get what he wants most of the time. He can’t truly remember the last time he made a decision for himself-- a decision not fueled by a need to survive, complete a hit, or to simply cover his tracks. He lacks stability. He has for a long time and being in Derry just emphasizes that lack of security in his pathetic life. Even now, as he escapes Eddie’s concerning eyes and pressing questions, something against his will and beyond his own conscious mind, drags him in the direction of where this object must be located. 

He doesn’t even want to go through with this. He can’t even begin to imagine what kind of horrors he is to endure should he continue his stay here. It all seems so stupid and unnecessary if you were to ask him. Artifacts? Sacrifice? Seriously? It all sounds like some bullshit hoax and he desperately wanted to call Mike out on it whilst in the Clubhouse, but as per usual, he found himself unable to really engage with the other Losers. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right among this group of normal individuals. 

Sure, they all were carrying their own baggage in some way or other. Everyone did. They all had grown into something their younger self would not be proud of… but none of them in the same way Richie had. His younger self, the rambunctious, loud-mouthed teenager would be mortified if he could see what he had shaped out to be. He would hate to see the nonexistent energy in this grown Richie-- one that didn’t know how to make his friends laugh in times of high stress. Younger Richie would have made an attempt to diffuse the thick tension that simmered in the Clubhouse moments ago. He sat there, silently, hoping to melt into the walls behind him and be forgotten by the people before him. He wasn’t brave like his younger self-- not even close. He killed people because he was a coward and didn’t know how to speak up for himself and because he was scared of facing consequences he knew he rightfully deserved. Sure, it was easy to deflect and insist that the people he killed were awful people-- and some were. That was true. However, some were just out of convenience for people with big bucks that could not carry out the task themselves for they were just as cowardly and pathetic as Richie had become. 

Being here truly opened his eyes as to how low he had sunk in the last two decades. What really hit was not only seeing Chris’s deformed face in that bathroom the other night, but Eddie, beautif-- _ NO-- _ kind and reassuring Eddie, attempting to convince him that he couldn’t blame himself for Chris’s death. He told him not blame himself for Chris dying because he, like the people who had most likely discovered Chris’s body in the car, had labeled it as a suicide-- something Richie  _ needed  _ them to do if it meant covering his own back. And wasn’t that just sick? 

Chris was so good. He always had been. He hadn’t even killed anyone under orders before. Killing that Bolivian guy had been the first time Chris actually took someone off the board and all because Richie told him to. Fuck. Richie told him to get out of the car and he wanted to simplify the situation into just that one fatal mistake on Chris’s part but he couldn’t. Everything went back to Richie being this piece of shit. He had roped someone else, someone innocent, a father, into his sick and fucked up life and if he remained here in Derry, who’s to say he won’t bring one of the Losers down with him? 

An unknown force moved Richie’s long, unsteady legs through Derry, now alive and bumbling with people that Richie avoided eye contact with. He feels his heart pounding in his chest and feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a breakdown as emotions rage in himself with an intensity he’s not prepared to truly handle at this moment. He makes himself small, fists shoved in his hoodie and head down as his legs move beyond his will until he comes to an abrupt halt in front of the movie theater. 

Richie stares at the entrance, swallowing thickly. He can’t remember  _ why  _ this place is the home to his artifact, but images are threatening to break through the surface of his brain as the waters of trauma continue to seep through toward the forefront of his disturbed mind. The theater is clearly no longer in business if the posters from movies that haven't been shown in decades and the shattered glass of the doors is anything to go by.

He takes a deep breath, chills beginning to trickle up his spine as he pushes his hand through the broken glass of the front doors. He almost expects to feel a disembodied hand grab him and force him inside and make him face the face of his dead friend once more. That does not happen. The sharp edges of the glass skim across his pale skin but he keeps his hand expertly still so as to not impale himself. He pulls the handle up from the outside and lets himself in, his nostrils instantly tickled and eyes instantly burning by what is surely a solid three inches of dust covering just about every surface of this place. Eddie would have a meltdown if he saw this place.

And for just a moment, as he takes in the room before him, a calm that he had not expected to experience from this hellhole town washes over him. Something resembling a smile quirks up the side of his face as he steps forward and remembers his younger self-- the version of himself that was loud, funny, and just  _ someone--  _ spending hours upon hours playing the various, now-dead arcade games that line the wall in front of him. He can see himself, gangly limbs and all, staring intently with a focus he didn’t even have for his schoolwork and damaging his already pathetic excuse for eyesight in order to beat his previous score. 

He has a couple of quarters in his wallet. He’s not certain if the filthy token dispensary still works or if it’s even loaded, but he might as well make an attempt. He twists the dial and receives an off-color coin that reads:  **NO CASH VALUE.** Funny. His token for this sacrifice bullshit is an actual fucking token. He can’t really pinpoint the significance of it as he toys with the object between his long, sturdy fingers. It’s supposed to hold some deep-hearted meaning between him and the falling out of that summer-- but for some reason it isn’t clicking with him. He just remembers himself spending all of his mother’s pocket change on… Street Fighter. Yeah, that was it. He steps toward it, picturing himself, tongue between his oversized teeth (which he thankfully grew into) and hands moving rapidly as he kicked some virtual opponent’s ass. 

He rarely had someone by his side whilst playing this game as his friends weren’t exactly keen at dealing with his more competitive side. They would simply play a different game or laugh next to him while he swore viciously at the screen before him. He had definitely mellowed with age-- sans the fact that he killed people for money-- and now stuck to playing Grand Theft Auto which sure, was inherently violent in nature. But he no longer cursed out virtual characters or nearly broke controllers. It was truly understandable that no one particularly enjoyed playing arcade games with him back in the day-- no one except Connor Bowers.  _ Shit.  _

_ That’s  _ where the significance of the arcade lay when it came to his stupid artifact which he had stuffed into his pocket for the bullshit ritual to be held later today or something. The once warmth nostalgia he’d felt as he re-experienced the arcade was quickly replaced by an icy chill of fear and a gut wrenching sensation of shame. A lump forms in his throat and his heart drops to his stomach. His memories of his friends waiting on him to finish  _ “just one more round!”  _ are immediately swept away with days spent alone in the arcade when they’d all separated after that stupid fight. His company, for a while, had been no one. He would spend hours there simply mumbling to himself and pretending that one of the characters was Bill since he couldn’t let go of the fact that he’d been punched in the face by someone he saw as a best friend.

He wasn’t really mad about that, though. He was more upset that he’d been alone. That is, until he met Connor Bowers who for a while, was just Connor. He looked so unlike anyone he had known as a child. He was cool in a way that few kids were. He was carefree in a way that younger Richie had only ever seen in movies. He had curly blonde hair that fell softly over one eye. He had gapped teeth and captivating eyes that stirred something in himself that he’d only felt for one other person in his life at that time. It wasn’t the same intensity and held a more playful tone to it-- he would later come to realize that playful feeling was merely infatuation and the love that he felt for---  _ stop it  _ he scolded himself. Nonetheless, the tingling was there whenever he had looked at that absolutely golden boy. He was nice to Richie when he hadn’t had anyone else during the fight of that godforsaken summer. 

He was nice until it really counted. He was content on touching Richie and letting Richie touch him back. He teased him playfully and gave Ricie a variety of unsolicited compliments that would make his cheeks flush warmly. He filled a void that Richie didn’t know he’d had. He went out of his way to keep him company in that arcade, and on occasion, followed Richie home and would spend time with him and eradicate that sinking loneliness he’d been burdened with since that first encounter with the clown at Neibolt. 

He was everything Richie needed that summer. But then Richie reciprocated the kindness in front of a group of people he didn’t know had any connection with this seemingly special boy. His attempt at extending one of their usual hangouts was thwarted as the boy  _ loudly _ accused him of things that were wrong, that were sick, that were inside of Richie but he could never admit to-- especially after the events that followed Connor’s allegations. 

Even now, he can’t admit it as his shoulders fall as the memory of himself being brutally screamed at and absolutely humiliated in front of everyone becomes vivid in his mind. Richie stands there, sadness crossing his face as he stares at the door where he once ran out, on the verge of tears as for the first time, without a group of friends to also endure the hate, he was called a  _ faggot  _ by his number one tormentor, (who just so happened to be the  _ cousin  _ of his summer… crush?) Henry fucking Bowers. 

He feels tears burn his eyes. It makes sense to him now as he stands there, finding it in himself to follow his previous footsteps out to the park.  _ That  _ day is why he’s always been too scared to come to terms with his own sexuality. Why he’s forced his mouth shut when he found another…  _ man  _ to be attractive. He didn’t enjoy the soft lips and curved hips of a woman. Sure, he could appreciate their beauty and he did admittedly enjoy sleeping with Sally, yeah. He could be bisexual, but he didn’t  _ feel  _ anything from it. It was just him attempting to fulfill what should have been his instincts or at least that’s what he’d been told his entire life whilst inhabiting a small town like Derry. He wanted so badly, so much so, that he became obsessive. 

He exhibited, what he still didn’t particularly understand, but what Sally called, “toxic masculinity.” He was possessive of her and wanted to make her  _ his,  _ just so he could formally declare himself a  _ straight man.  _ He never understood this intense desire to have a girlfriend without any genuine feeling behind it, but now it made sense. 

He enjoyed the sharp jaws and strong hands of other men. He liked the perfectly cut hair, the slender waist, the spitfire way of speaking, and the doe eyes of a certain hypochondriac that made his heart flutter with an intensity that Connor Bowers could have never matched. It was a feeling he’d held in himself since he was a scared teenager and had never let go of, even as a lonely forty-year-old man. But with the fear that had been instilled into his developing mind, he could never force himself to accept it. He had to put up another mask in addition to the various other ones he held on a daily basis. He wanted to do anything to never come to terms with the fact that he, Richard Wentworth Tozier, ex-military, current hitman, and budding actor, was… gay. 

It was too scary then and even now, the idea of admitting it to anyone but himself was absolutely mortifying. Richie follows the path he’d taken twenty-seven years ago when he ran out of there, just a scared and humiliated little kid. He wondered if there really was any single moment in his existence that was not somehow related to what a therapist might refer to as a “traumatic event” or something. Not likely, he thinks as he finds himself in front of the giant Paul Bunyan statue. 

It’s still just as ugly and intimidating to him as it was as a kid. A pedestal for masculinity and heterosexual normative behavior and all things that Richie could not securely say he had then or even now. He cocks his head at the thing and feels blessed that at least this time it’s not trying to eat his face off or stab him with a pitchfork because it knew he was… what he was. He lets himself stare at it, almost daring it to do something again. His fear is blending with the anger that he feels almost constantly.

He let not only Bowers, but the clown take away any sense of self he had been developing at the ripe age of thirteen. Sure, all sense of self was gone  _ now  _ with the war and what he did with Fuches-- but Richie believed it was safe to say that his spiral into nothingness did not begin with him shooting an innocent man or having to sit back as his parents were taken away from him at the same time. No. It all really began here. In whatever layer of hell this town made up. It began with his fear that overwhelmed him then and now. It slowly wrapped him up like a starving python and riddled him useless to any idea of who he was and who he could be. That summer left him weak and prone to everything that would later come his way and morph him into the person he was now. 

He suddenly has a flyer, thick and heavy with raised text shoved into his hands by a random stranger.

“ _ Shit! _ ” Richie gasps, startled by the rudeness. Who the fuck?

“Hope to see ya there, handsome.” A dull voice tells him, glancing back at him and revealing his bloody and decaying face. Richie immediately recognizes it to be Adrian Mellon-- the man whose remains were discovered by the side of a bridge and Richie feels his stomach sink. According to Mike, Adrian’s boyfriend had reported that before his boyfriend was attacked by what he believed to be a clown (but could not be sure as he thinks he had a concussion) the two of them were victims of a homophobic hate crime. The clown knew what it was doing and it was only fitting to have this specific victim reveal himself to Richie of all people. It knew the game it was playing right now. 

Adrian then tosses the remaining flyers in the air like they’re nothing. Richie lives in L.A. now and he knows that’s something you definitely shouldn’t do. It’s not particularly good for the environment but he cannot do anything but stand there in shock. 

He looks down at the paper and he feels his eyes widen and his stomach drop as he is met with what is clearly an obituary that features  _ his  _ face. The image before him is of him without the glasses, eyes tired and dull, and mouth in his usual awkward half-smile that never suggests anything remotely close to genuine happiness. His eyes go wide behind his glasses as he skims the details, realizing that the funeral scheduled on the paper is supposed to occur today. This feels all too familiar to a missing poster that he once panicked over in a crackhead house nearly three decades ago. 

He is dragged from his thoughts as a deranged voice breaks his focus, “Did ya miss me Richie.

He knows who it is. He looks up and is met with the clown perched upon the statue’s shoulder holding balloons, perfectly distributed into an inverted triangle. That fucker. He knows what that’s meant to symbolize and he hates that the clown is capable of using it against him. 

He startles slightly at the sight. “F-fuck.”

The sound of the townspeople that were engaged in their own activities behind him and all around him come to an immediate halt and he is now encapsulated in an eerie silence. It feels like he is the only one alive in this park as It begins his mental torture upon the hitman before him.

“Cause I’ve missed you.” The clown says in a chilling voice, eyes narrowing at Richie.

Richie swallows, wishing he could move his feet. But something in his body has him rooted to the spot, staring dumbly at the shape-shifting creature that has a flare for dramatics. Truly, if It wasn’t so hellbent on terrorizing people, Richie believes it could make it well in his acting class as the thing really knows how to elicit a reaction from an audience and isn’t as reliant on listening and focusing on single lines the way Richie is. 

“No one wants to play with a clown anymore.” It laments. No one wants to play with a fucking clown that eats kids, Richie thinks to himself but cannot verbalize the mildly humorous thought that his younger self would’ve easily spit back. Instead, he stays there, eyes wide and terrified as he waits to see what Pennywise has up Its sleeve.

“Play a game with me, would ya?!” He says, a smile curling upon his face and a twisted tone of joy melting into his voice. “How about Streetfighter? Oh yes, you like that one, don’t you?” He laughs at Richie who is starting to tremble with fear, mouth agape with horror. “Or maybe, truth or dare?” 

“Jesus.” Richie gasps, unable to step or look away. 

“Oh you wouldn’t want anyone to pick Truth though, would you Richie? You wouldn't want anyone to know the  _ things _ you’re hiding…” The clown then seems to levitate off of the statue’s shoulder and begins taunting him, singing about how he knows Richie’s dirty little secret and lands just feet in front of Richie and even though he’s not the same little thirteen year old, the clown is just as intimidating to him. 

“Should I tell ‘em, Richie? Should I tell them  _ what  _ you are? What you  _ do?  _ Do I tell them everything I know about you-- a monster like  _ me?”  _

Why is It so painfully right? Richie is a monster. He knows he is. He’s a killer. A cold-blooded murderer. He is no better than this stupid clown. He has more in common with the beast before him than he does with his scared, younger self. Richie closes his eyes because what else can he do? He feels the weight of the gun in his pocket but his hands are too unsteady to make a decent shot right now and would that even be effective against a stupid alien clown? “This isn’t real. This isn’t real.” He tells himself, willing it away. That worked when he was a kid. Why shouldn’t it now? 

He opens his eyes and is met with the bloody face of Chris again. He’s too scared and too  _ guilty  _ for it to work now. Chris runs at him, teeth unnaturally sharp as he moves to attack Richie for the second time in the last twenty-four hours. Richie, unsure of what to do with himself, simply screams and sprints in the opposite direction. He distantly hears Chris shouting for him and he wants to turn back because It sounds so much like his friend-- the friend he fucking murdered. He wants to see him and beg for forgiveness but he knows it isn’t real but it does nothing to assuage the guilt and terror he feels right now. 

He can’t do this anymore, he decides as he finally comes to a halt a few blocks later. He knew being in this town was a mistake. He wanted to leave the minute he came back and realized he couldn’t be around the Losers without making them uncomfortable with his social awkwardness and shifted personality. He wanted to just escape right there and then and find some way of figuring himself out that wasn’t in this fucking town. No. His hands are trembling and his heart is attempting to break from its cage as it palpitates within his chest. 

The clown knows too much about him and it wants to spill his  _ dirty little secrets  _ to the Losers. He’s a liability. Bev and Eddie made that abundantly clear last night and today. He  _ is  _ scared. He’s a coward. Him having this much baggage is going to lead to the others getting hurt somehow. He can’t go through with this stupid oath. They can do this without him. He knows they can. He’s barely a legitimate friend to any of them at this point. He isn’t  _ their  _ Richie. He can never be their Richie ever again. He’s hurt too many people and he doesn’t want to stay here and be responsible for the Losers getting hurt. 

xXx

Richie walks through the entrance of the Inn where he immediately sees Bev and Ben conversing about something and he wishes no one was here so he could make a quick and clean exit. He just avoids eye contact and makes his way toward the steps. He thinks they might have said hi to him but he can’t worry about that. He only needs to worry about getting the fuck out of here.

“Move.” He grunts at them as they block the front of the stairs.

“What’s wrong, Rich?” Bev asks.

Instead, he’s rude. “ _ Move. _ ” They move and he takes the steps two at a time.

“Richie? What are you doing?” Ben asks gently.

“I’m leaving.” He tells them. He just wants these two beautiful people to leave him the fuck alone. 

“Richie you can’t! It has to be all of us!” One of them hollers toward him, starting up the steps.

“We’re all gonna die anyway.” He snaps back, slamming himself in his room before he has to see Bev’s kind face or endure Ben’s gentle words. He feels himself vibrating in his skin, too big for his body as anxiety thrums below the surface. He closes his eyes and wipes at them from beneath his glasses. He flaps his hands as they itch to punch something. He gnaws on his lip as tears sting his eyes and a sob wiggles up his throat.

Everything is so undeniably wrong. He can’t handle this anymore. He’s not strong enough for it. He’s only going to get people hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt people… anymore than he already has and will most likely continue to do once Fuches finds him again. He just needs to get out of here and get back to L.A. or Ohio or something. He has no legitimate path from here. That doesn’t matter. Anything but Derry is good for him. 

“Fuck!” He half-whispers to himself, punching himself in the head a few times, hoping that some of these stressed thoughts that are making him unable to execute his exit will be thwarted by the blows. Someone knocks at the door and his heart stutters just briefly and he sucks in a few breaths and blinks tears back rapidly in order to create an image of something resembling sanity. “Yeah?”

“Hey… Rich, it’s me.” Ben says as he slides into Richie’s room. His eyes are full of genuine concern and his mouth is set in the same kind smile Richie recalls from their childhood. 

“Hi, Haystack.” Richie murmurs, uncertain as to why the nickname came to him so easy and flowed off his tongue like that. 

Ben seems to like that as his smile twists into something a little more playful. “You okay?”

Stupid question. Richie shrugs, rubbing aggressively at his sweatshirt-covered biceps.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Ben laughs meekly. “We need you, Rich. You can’t just leave us right now.”

“Ben, I can’t. Okay? I’m not… I can’t face this thing anymore.” Richie pleads.

“It showed you something scary. I get it. I know. It did it to all of us.” Ben tells him. “I think it’s scarier now that we are adults to be quite honest.”

Richie looks at Ben, studying him as he looks down at his own feet. 

“Our fears now… they’re so much more real and a lot of us have lived up to our fear. I am alone. I really have no friends except you guys. No one loves me.”

“Ben, we--”

“No, I know you guys do. I know that  _ now.  _ But if we don’t all beat It… that all goes away. We’re all going to die, Rich and even if by some miracle we don’t, we go back to forgetting each other and living our sad, lonely lives.” Ben sighs. “None of us are happy. We can’t be unless  _ we all  _ beat It.”

Richie shakes his head. “Ben, I really can’t.”

“We need you, Rich. We need all of us to beat It together. I know whatever It is showing you has to be scary, Rich. I know you’ve been through a lot these past few years.” 

He didn’t know half of it. “Ben… I think you guys will be better off with me not--”

“Rich, we already lost Stan. I can’t lose you too.” Richie sighs at this. “I know you have a secret or something. You never really told us what you were scared of then and I don’t think you’re eager to now… but that’s… that’s going to hurt you. You don’t have to say it. I understand given all you’ve been through. You’re scared of something we probably can’t possibly understand, but whatever it is, you have to realize it doesn’t matter. Now now. It just wants to psych you out and make you feel  _ this  _ way. You can’t let It win. We need  _ you.”  _

It does matter though. It matters so much. It’s not like whatever the hell the other Losers are scared of-- not that Richie is one to minimize someone else’s internal battle. But his fears are brought on by his own actions. There isn’t some cryptic meaning behind his fear. It’s quite blunt. He’s scared of  _ himself--  _ all facets of who he was, is, and has become. He is scared of the feelings he has harbored for a certain hypochondriac and he’s scared of the instinct to kill that is woven into his brain after years of war and a job that he allows himself to be a part of because he is too weak to make his own decisions. It matters because Richie is something all of them should fear and should distance themselves from. He can’t afford to let anyone else care about him lest he lose control again or fail to cover his tracks. He can’t handle it.

He can’t admit to it though so he just gives Ben a weak smile.

“Okay. I’ll stay… I just need some time I think. If that’s okay?”

“Yeah, of course man. We’ll head over to the library here soon, alright? You do whatever you need. We’re here for you, Rich.” Ben says, patting Richie gently on the back. 

Richie sits on his bed for a moment before he is certain Ben is definitely not going to double back or send Bev his way. He then quickly rushes and throws all of his things into his duffle bag, not taking the time to carefully fold anything or place his shampoo bottles upright. Who the hell cares if they spill all over his shit? He sure as hell doesn’t right now.

He slings his bag over his shoulder and darts out the window.

“Shit.” He grumbles, realizing the fire escape is not at his own balcony. Fuck it. He’s done more challenging escapes in his life. He swings his long legs over the edge and slowly moves himself down before allowing himself to drop to the ground, landing with a grace most of the Losers would probably never expect to see out of him. Military training did him well in some areas of his life-- most notably his ability to coordinate his excessively long limbs.

He looks over his shoulder before sprinting to his car, unlocking it and tossing his stuff in the back and pulling out. He high tails out, hands tight on the steering wheel as his breath comes in unsteady gasps. He attempts to ground himself because the last thing he needs right now is to have a panic attack while trying to get out of the hellscape that Derry truly is. 

_ He’s in a California king bed. He stretches his long legs and arms out as far as they can go, a popping sensation going down the entire length of his spine which elicits a less than PG groan from his lips. A small snort comes from a man next to him as they attempt to suppress a laugh.  _

_ “Morning, sleepy.” Whispers the voice of one Eddie Kaspbrak, eyes half-lidded and hair tousled by sleep. He’s wearing a t-shirt that is clearly too large on him and falls over one of his shoulders, revealing a collarbone that is marked with a love bite from someone that definitely does not have perfectly straight teeth. His crooked teeth. Richie Tozier’s crooked teeth. _

_ “You look dazzling.” Richie tells him, pulling Eddie closer to him, pressing a kiss into his soft brown hair.  _

_ “You’re so fucking stupid.” Eddie giggles, “You can’t even see me!” He reaches over and grabs a pair of Gucci frames and slides them onto Richie’s face.  _

_ “Still dazzling.” Richie hums. _

_ “I’m so glad to have you.” Eddie tells him, stroking the side of his unshaven cheek. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this with you after all those years.” _

_ “Neither did I.” Richie admits, pulling the covers over them, resting his head against Eddie’s chest. Eddie chuckles beneath him as he pushes his slender fingers through Richie’s mess of hair-- hair that he’s let grow back out to his naturally curly state. No longer is he sporting the cropped hair he’s had since he left the military.  _

_ “You were so brave back in Derry.” Eddie tells him. “So, so brave and now we have all of this.” He gestures to the luxurious master bedroom that is adorned with only designer home decor and a couple of oscars and emmys are lined upon one of the shelves across from their bed. Richie was brave according to Eddie and because he was brave they had this life. This beautiful and opulent life. He was brave so he could have a life with Eddie. He needed to be brave for Eddie. _

Richie finds himself across from the synagogue. He sees that they are honoring Stanley Uris. He feels his shoulders slump and he could continue onward and out of the town but finds himself turning into the parking lot. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here but here he is, walking inside and plopping himself in the same seat he recalls sitting in when he watched Stan give his speech. 

He remembers how moving the speech had been. It had been so profound and as a child it merely proved to Richie that Stan was a complete badass. But now, he realized Stan was wise beyond his years. 

He remembers Stan saying, “The secrets we feel we have to keep are the hardest to walk away from” and how those words truly hit his younger self between the eyes. He had just realized he was different from the other boys in regards to where his feelings lay but it was something he could never admit and even now the words hit him with even more power. He still had secrets and they were still just as hard to walk away from. 

He wonders if Stan knows that his words are still reaching him right now as he sits there all by himself. He can’t walk away from this. He’s overwhelmed with so many secrets-- deadly secrets. But he can’t abandon his friends. Younger Richie would hate him for that. He would be disappointed in what Richie was now, sure. Not funny, a hitman, and someone that couldn’t make a decision for himself. But he would never forgive himself if he left his friends to fight that clown alone.

“Thanks for showing up Stan.” Richie whispers loud enough so that maybe, just maybe, if Stan is somehow here right now, he hears him and knows that Richie still thinks he’s brave even if he was the most openly vulnerable to the stupid clown. Stan had a point with those words. We all want to forget what we don’t like about ourselves so maybe Richie  _ can _ forget the parts he doesn’t like about himself. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t have to be a violent piece of shit and maybe he  _ can  _ change and morph himself into something better. Maybe he can find a way to keep his friends without hurting them.

He walks out with a newfound goal and a light feeling he hasn’t felt in a while. He gets himself into his car and turns around back toward the library where they said they would all meet up with Mike. 

He cannot help but feel a smile on his face as he bounds toward the entrance. He shoves his hand in his pocket where he feels the warmth of the token ready for whatever ritual they must complete in order to defeat this thing and hopefully begin a path toward a better life. He walks up the stairs and is immediately drawn out of his internal bliss by the sounds of a struggle. He cocks his head and slowly enters, holding his breath.

Steathfully, he steps in and is met with the sight of a stringy haired mullet-- Bowers. Suddenly a fire burns in him and all feelings of tranquility are suddenly eradicated as memories from the arcade are forced back to the forefront of his mind. The anger he feels burns with a raging fire as he sees this man atop of a struggling Mike with his stupid pocket knife.

Richie doesn’t even think. He acts on instinct and sprints over and kicks Henry in the ribs and off of Mike.

“If it isn’t the fairy!” Bowers drawls out from the ground. Mike is gasping behind him, clearly in pain from his encounter. “Are you ready to float,  _ faggot?” _ Bowers hisses as he moves to get up and launch himself toward Richie.

Richie thinks he might hear people run into the library from where he came in but he’s not sure. Everything is ringing in his ears as he hears those words slip from Henry’s mouth. Rage burns inside of him and his shoulders heave violently and without thinking, on total instinct, Richie reaches for the gun just as Henry moves to attack him. He pulls it out and shoots Henry not once, not twice, but countless times, an animalistic screech tearing from his throat. He sees nothing but red. Red like a fucking balloon. 

He’s still yelling and he hears other voices crying and screaming his name. He turns and he sees Ben, Bev, and Eddie-- who has a bloody patch on his face. They’re all yelling at him. He starts yelling back but he doesn’t really know what he’s saying. He’s gone mad.

And in a fashion too similar to Korengal, Ben runs to him and has him pushed up against the wall of the library yelling at him to stop and to calm down. Richie is confused and the gun slips from his fingers and he feels panic rising in his throat as he looks down and sees Bowers, pumped full of more metal than anything. His eyes are wide and he sees fear in Mike, Bev, Ben, and  _ Eddie’s  _ eyes… fear nor for him but  _ of him.  _ He looks at Ben who is still yelling at him to stop and to calm down as he attempts to steady Richie’s body against the wall, struggling against Richie’s own strength and power. 

Richie looks at what he’s done. Sure, Bowers is a racist and homophobic piece of shit but the way Richie has killed him proves him to be nothing but the violent piece of shit he  _ doesn’t  _ want to be. Richie thinks he might be sick but instead like he did last time something like this happened, he simply blacks out. 

He hopes he doesn’t wake up in Germany again. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it wasn't a big yikes chapter.
> 
> I do mention Richie saying he could be bi for a moment if he had genuine feelings for women, (extremely brief) but in this instance, he is not. He doesn't particularly have legitimate feelings and is only acting on what he thinks he has to do because the big emphasis here is Richie really has zero say in what he gets to do as a person.
> 
> I think Barry might be based on the show and some of the scripts Bill and Alec scrapped and there's no certainty in the fandom as to what Richie is so I just went with him being gay. I'm not trying to commit any bi erasure but I'm just writing his sexuality as I've seen from Richie the most. I know it's more hinted that he's bi in the books and other forms of media, but I only really have exposure to the 17/19 films which is more suggestive of him being gay (or at least that's what I gather) and only that. I hope I executed this okay! 
> 
> In other words, please continue to stay safe right now! Updates are erratic for me solely because I'm in an area where this disease is RAGING. It's all very scary and I have no idea what's happening and my who life has been thrown off with every little thing that's happening. Stay in tune with yourself and your friends.
> 
> Tend to your mental and physical health. Try to maintain your sanity even though you should stay inside. Try to get a walk in there and then. Don't expose yourself to groups of people. Social distance. Wash your hands and don't touch your lovely face.
> 
> Care for yourself right now! 
> 
> yikes


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a second! I've been extremely busy with a move that's occupied a great majority of my time! I am nearly all settled in and have also finished my first semester of senior year! Big hype!
> 
> I hope this one is okay! It's VERY short because a lot more is to come and initially I didn't want to end it there but I decided meh fuck it. Let's drag it out. It was complicated to write which is another reason why this one is ridiculously short. I have more plans for upcoming chapters and while the updates may be infrequent, I hope it's still decent and worth the read! If not, shit. lol
> 
> tw: More talks of anxiety/PTSD, emetophobia (briefly), just general poor mental state

Eddie watches in silent horror as Ben presses Richie against the wall, screaming at him to calm down and to drop his weapon. Richie’s eyes are blown as he glances down at Bower’s body and meets Eddie’s eyes as his face twists into absolute terror, jaw quivering violently as the gun slips past his fingers. Bev quickly snatches the weapon off the ground, and slides it across the room and attempts to grab Richie’s face in her hands while Ben presses against all his limbs. Eddie can see that they are trying to prevent him from continuing his fit of what appeared to be rage, but as a result, Eddie can see that they are doing nothing but essentially trapping him and enhancing Richie’s own sense of panic. 

“Let him go!” Eddie quickly yells, batting away Ben’s strong arms.

“Eddie, he’s---”

“He’s fucking scared. Let him go.” Eddie bellows, grabbing Richie’s shoulders and easily sliding him onto the ground. “Hey Rich, it’s me. Come on.” He’s suddenly taken back to the summer of ‘89 where Bill consoled a fearful Richie by attempting to divert his attention by insisting that Richie look at him and not the missing poster Pennywise crafted to taunt his friend and then Richie utilizing the same tactic whilst holding his own cheeks, not even an hour later when Eddie fearfully watched the clown approach him as he lay slumped against a wall. 

“Look at me, Rich.” Eddie tells his friend, cupping his jaw in his hands. If this were a slightly different moment, the touch would be more intimate, bordering on something romantic and fulfilling a dream his younger self had always had. 

Richie stares at him but Eddie can tell he’s not really seeing. His eyes are slightly glazed over in the throes of some sort of episode as his body trembles beneath Eddie’s touch. His mouth moves to form words but nothing comes out. His twisted teeth begin gnawing at his bottom lip and Eddie pushes his head into his knees as Richie’s breathing goes uneven. Richie inhales roughly, a sound that reminds Eddie too much of what he once thought to be asthma attacks but now knows to be panic attacks. Richie’s strong fingers, quaking with trepidation dig roughly into his scalp and Eddie is tempted to ease them out of his curls, but decides against it for Richie is clearly not fully present in his own mind right now and too much touch could be overstimulating. 

Eddie cannot help but feel useless as he sits next to his friend. He knows he cannot offer anything of much help for Richie’s current state so he simply rubs one hand between his shoulder blades and mumbles soothing words in Richie’s ear in hopes of steadily pulling him back to reality and out of whatever dreadful mindset he is presently imprisoned. 

He briefly glances down at Bowers and while he is somewhat thankful that he no longer in existence for he can recollect years of torment induced by this racist, homophobic, asshole and his cheek burns beneath the patch from his earlier incident with the now deceased man, he cannot help but feel a twinge of something that definitely is not satisfaction for what Richie has done to the deranged man. There are countless bullet holes cut through the man like swiss cheese and he still can vividly see the animalistic expression that had been across Richie’s face as he hit the trigger multiple times without a single flinch. His eyes had seemed dead and for a second, Eddie had been convinced that there was someone else in the room taking Henry Bowers off the board as he swore he saw a glint of familiar gold in his friend’s eyes. 

As Richie remains detached from reality, muttering words Eddie cannot quite catch, he tunes back into the conversation happening around him, between his friends. 

“Do you think he was under Pennywise’s control?” Ben asks as Bev wraps up Mike’s tricep with bandages from a first aid kit that he must have retrieved from elsewhere in the library after Eddie shoved him off of Richie. “He just looked so… he looked like a _monster_.” 

Eddie feels a snarl deep in his chest as they talk about Richie as if he’s not even there. He knows he might as well not be for he is truly dissociated himself from the present conversation and is essentially unconscious to the words being uttered by his friends but nevertheless, Eddie is furious with them. “Richie _isn’t_ a monster.” Eddie snaps. Everyone turns to him where they left him with Richie. “He saved Mike.”

“We know that, Eddie.” Bev reassures him. “It just…he was scary. You know that, Eddie.”

“He was out of control.” Mike states, giving Bev a thankful nod as he pulls his injured arm into his lap. “However, I don’t think this was the clown’s influence. _Bowers_ was under the clown’s influence.”

“Yeah, no surprises there.” Eddie sniffs as his own wound gives a painful twinge.

“Pennywise would not have forced Richie, a known enemy so to speak, to kill off his own pawn.” Mike tells them. He swallows thickly and Eddie feels his shoulders tense at the grimace that crosses his features. “That… that was _all_ Richie.”

“No it wasn’t!” Eddie argues. “Richie isn’t a violent guy.”

Ben shifts uncomfortably. “His uncle sa--”

“ _Fuck_ Richie’s uncle. He took him away from us right after his parents died. We didn’t even get to go to Maggie and Went’s funeral!” Eddie raises his voice. Richie’s murmurs grow in volume and he can hear a whimper building in the man’s throat so he takes a deep breath and returns to a volume that may not enhance Richie’s feelings of distress. “Richie is not a violent guy. He’s not. He’s just not. Richie is funny, loud, and he’s always been a lover, not a fighter.”

Well he was. Eddie knows this Richie isn’t _that_ Richie. It’s like he’s thought since he came here, someone else dug their claws into Richie and tore away the traits that made him so lovable in their youth. It’s still there, Eddie is certain. It’s simply been repressed with years of trauma and warped by whatever cahoots Richie is involved in with Fuches.

“ I don’t care what happened just now. Richie was _scared._ He was scared for _you_ , Mikey. He did what he felt necessary and maybe it’s not exactly what any of us would do but we need to put ourselves in his shoes, guys. Richie’s been through a lot. A lot more than any of us know.” Eddie sighs. “We can’t write him off as some monster. Richie just… he’s not.”

“Honey, we don’t think he is a monster.” Bev reassures him. She moves to approach Eddie and Richie where they sit against the wall but Eddie shakes his head. “He’s just… he’s been a wreck since he first got here.” Bev sighs. 

“He’s not himself, Eds.” Ben says, a look of concern on his face. 

“I know.” Eddie admits quietly. “But we can’t just write him off like that.”

“We’re not.” Mike tells Eddie. “We need all of us here right now and that includes Richie. We just need to make sure he’s not going to pose as a… a risk down there. If he loses control like that, a lot _will_ go wrong, Eddie.”

“I know.” Eddie mutters, moving his fingers toward Richie’s which have gone white with the unrelenting grip he has on his hair. He slowly uses a few fingers to carefully pry them away, stroking his thumb across Richie’s exposed palm. “I don’t know everything and I know you saw stuff Bev, but we don’t know what he’s been through but I know he would never lose control on any of us and he won’t let any of us down. Richie never has.” 

Bev smiles kindly. “We know that, Eddie.” 

“Good.” He responds plainly, returning his attention to Richie who seems to be easing up somewhat. His shivers are few and far between. His breathing isn’t composed of heaves and thin gasps. The incessant mumbling has ceased itself and he is now simply curled up in a position no forty year old man should ever be (God he’s gonna feel that in the morning Eddie cannot help but think), breathing slowly and more evenly. Finally, in the silence that has settled upon the group, Richie seems to physically drag himself from the depths of his darkened mind as he slowly pulls his head up. 

“I’m going to throw up.” He announces, scrambling away from Eddie before doubling over next to a dated poster of the Dewey Decimal System and gagging violently before losing the meager contents of his stomach. Eddie can remember Richie always having a nervous stomach when they were teens and he can only wonder how he managed to get through legitimate combat without losing his lunch on the daily. 

Ben is about to approach Richie, concern in his eyes but Richie quickly waves him off as he manages to pull himself back up to his full (and impressive) height. He wipes the side of his mouth on his sweatshirt, something that in any other circumstances would have disgusted Eddie but he’s currently in a room with a mediocre patch job over a stab wound, a puddle of sick, and the corpse of his childhood bully. Richie’s miniscule action barely sickens him in the slightest.

“You good there, Rich?” Ben asks slowly as Richie stumbles back toward the group, his face an ashen grey.

“Yeah.” He blinks several times, seemingly taking in his surroundings. 

“What… what was that, Richie?” Bev questions him gently. 

Richie seems confused for a minute but as he glances down at Bowers, his face manages to lose even more color. “He was… he was going to kill Mike.”

“Yeah.” Mike agrees. “He was. But you just wouldn’t stop. What happened?”

Richie rolls his neck uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was… I don’t know. _Fuck_.” He starts shaking his hands, clenching his eyes shut and for a minute Eddie is worried that he’s already been driven to yet another panic attack. “I was scared. I just saw and heard Bowers and he…I saw… I saw red and I just needed to be sure he couldn’t hurt anyone else.” 

“Okay.” Eddie says evenly. “You were scared. That’s… that’s what Pennywise wants.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not… I’m not…” He fidgets with his hands, unable to meet any of their eyes. “I’m not a violent piece of shit, okay? I’m not.”

“No one thinks that, Richie.” Bev reassures their friend. A little two-faced in Eddie’s opinion, but he’s not one to stir the pot. They mean well. He knows they do. They too were frightened just not of Bowers so much as they were their own friend. “You just scared us.”

“This is what Pennywise wants. He wants us to be scared and we can’t be.” Mike tells them sternly. 

They nod at Mike’s words. They cannot allow their fears to overwhelm them which is easier said than done. Eddie knows this. He, although not completely losing touch with his sense of self as his best friend just had, finds a weight settling deep inside him as he realizes the task of taking on Pennywise is just around the corner. They all have their tokens in order to complete whatever potentially bullshit ritual Mike has planned for them. All they need now is to find Bill as Mike reminds them that they cannot do this separate from each other and that means going inside the house Eddie never wanted to enter for the first time, let alone a _third_. This better work because the sooner they can all get out, the better. 

xXx

They are quick to head over to the Neibolt house. It’s not exactly a short jog but with the adrenaline that can only come from the existential terror that weighs upon five adults with alien clown trauma, it is a relatively easy trek. It’s in their journey over that Eddie fills the silence that would have normally been overflowed with Richie’s mindless rambling, by filling in Richie about what he missed when he decided to leave the Inn. He gives him the juicy details of how Bowers stabbed him in the face and all that Richie seems to gather from the story is the fact that Eddie had stabbed the motherfucker with his own knife. Despite the sallow expression permanently etched onto what used to be a lively human, this story manages to get Richie to snort out one of his dorky goose-honk chuckles-- a blessed sound Eddie hadn’t heard since his teens.. 

Eddie cannot help but grin at the sound. The others, while not stopping, do turn to watch as Richie attempts to control his goofy laughter. It’s a sound Eddie has a feeling that has not slipped past his lips in a long time. It’s perhaps not the most appropriate moment for one of them to be driven to hysterical giggles, but it’s perhaps the best thing that can happen to Richie before entering this crackhead house as he had so affectionately referred to it as a child. He can’t be riddled with too much fear if he’s laughing, right?

It seems cliche, Eddie cannot help but think as they round the corner toward Neibolt as lightning strikes across the sky. Seriously? God, this _does_ feel like one of Bill’s books which Eddie had some weird desire to buy years ago for the author’s name stirred something inside of him. He wasn’t particularly fond of them but he powered through each of them. Eddie vaguely wonders if this dreary weather that has seemingly materialized out of nowhere is the clown’s doing. Perhaps the clown really _is_ that dramatic to truly set the scene for what Eddie hopes to be It’s end. 

Of course, Bill is already at the house. His bike, which Eddie recognizes to be _Silver,_ is tossed carelessly next to the fence, similar to what they did as kids and he’s starting to ascend the sinking steps. Big Bill (whom Eddie is now taller than), with his undying hero complex is clearly about to throw himself into the house without their help which makes sense seeing as Bill has been riddled with unspeakable guilt ever since Georgie first went missing.

“Bill!” Bev calls as she takes the lead which Eddie is certainly impressed by because her shoes are _definitely_ not arch supporting. 

“No! No, guys don’t!” Bill shouts as they all jog into the poorly maintained front yard. “I s-s-started all this. This is all my fault that yo-you’re all here. This curse? This fucking _thing_ that’s inside you all-- it started growing the day I m-made you go down to the Barrens because all I cared about was finding G-Georgie.” He pleads. Even in the night, Eddie can see a wetness in his eyes. “I-I’m gonna go in there and I don’t know what’s gonna happen but I can’t ask you to do this.” 

Bev steps forward and picks up the post from the dead grass, cutting off Bill's self-sacrificing rant. “We’re not asking you either.”

“We didn’t do it alone then, Bill. So we’re not gonna do this alone now.” Mike says.

“Losers stick together.” Ben adds.

Bill’s shoulders slump slightly. Not in defeat but in what Eddie hopes is relief that his friends are there and are going to help put an end to all of this. They’re ready to go in and yes, they all had something profound to say in reassuring Bill, but it doesn’t seem _enough_ to Eddie. None of what they’ve said is necessarily fighting words to lead them into combat against a shapeshifting clown. 

“So, does somebody wanna say something?” He asks.

Everyone falls silent, perhaps memorizing some bullshit from _Braveheart_ or some other inspiring monologues to guide them past the splintering doors. 

“Richie said it the b-best when we were here last.” 

“I did?” His eyes widen and he seems confused as he visibly starts scanning his memory for whatever rousing words he had to offer as a Trashmouthed thirteen-year-old. “I don’t wanna die?” 

God, Eddie hopes it’s not that. That isn’t exactly the uplifting words he needs right now as fear begins to bubble in his chest as he realizes that he will soon be in that hell house. 

“Not that.” 

“You’re lucky we’re not measuring dicks?” 

Everyone turns to look at Richie, bewildered expressions on their faces. Eddie holds back a snort at that.

“No.” Bill breathes out.

Richie ponders for a moment longer before asking, “Let’s kill this fucking clown?”

A toothy grin forms upon Bill’s face. That’s it. Fitting, really. 

And with a power this timid version of Richie hasn’t had since Eddie first saw him he says, “Let’s kill this fuckin’ clown.” 

And they fucking better.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this one was still an interesting read!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I am baby. Be kind but be honest? I have tried. I'm rather out of practice in regards to writing and have been trying a lot with a different fic of mine and now with this one. My goal is to end 2020 with some semblance of the ability I had before college crushed my creativity. Lmao.


End file.
